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THE REST CURE 


A NOVEL 


By W. B. MAXWELL 

AUTHOR OF 

“VIVIEN,” “THE GUARDED FLAME,” 
“SEYMOUR CHARLTON,” ETC. 



D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 
NEW YORK 
1910 

c ~rV r " 



Copyright, 1910, by 
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 


Published October , 1910 





©CI.A2737- 2 


THE REST CURE 


I 

A certain Mrs. Finnemore, good and helpful wife to 
the editor of an evening newspaper, was holding her 
weekly afternoon reception; and, as she glanced round the 
front room and through the open doors into the back room, 
she became conscious that the assembly of guests was not 
quite up to her usual standard of excellence. 

There were stolid middle-aged women, tittering girls, 
and tightly-laced matrons in rich garments and plumed 
hats; there were old men with slow movements and shaky 
legs; and there were young men who looked feeble, vacu- 
ous, worm-like, as they brushed through the petticoats and 
dodged round the elbows, carrying tea-cups or cake plates 
in their polite hands. The party was all right as to quan- 
tity, but deficient in quality. Old and young seemed weary 
and weak — no animation, no chorus of chatter. Outside, 
in Victoria Street, it was cold and foggy; and one might 
almost have supposed that these people had come indoors 
merely for shelter and warmth. This ugly idea, passing 
through the mind of the hostess, chased the smile from her 
lips. She liked to think that she had a salon — open every 
Friday — where you always met distinguished and cele- 
brated persons. 

Then in a moment her face brightened; and she came 

i 


THE REST CURE 


forward, beaming, to welcome Mr. John Barnard, M. P. 
He was her best, her only lion this afternoon, and she 
beamed upon him with the utmost graciousness. 

“ How sweet of you. . . . Isn’t it sweet of him to 
sandwich me in between the city and the House of Com- 
mons? He is such a busy man that his presence is a real 
compliment.” 

Mr. Barnard showed his strong white teeth, shrugged his 
powerful shoulders, and flashed his clear gray eyes in rapid, 
wide-sweeping scrutiny, while the complaisant hostess sang 
the praises of her single lion. 

“ I must tell you how greatly your articles are being 
appreciated. My husband says they are the best things 
he has secured for ages. They will do the paper real good. 
They are so strong, so fearless. . . . Mr. Barnard 
is writing the most wonderful series . . . Colonial 
Finance. . . . Oh, but you must read them. . . . 

It’s very naughty of you not to read our paper every day. 
No house should be without it. . . . Sidonie, my pet, 
take Mr. Barnard and give him some tea.” 

Then a shy and still immature daughter, smiling and 
blushing, led the distinguished guest towards the inner room. 

The women and girls all looked after him, as with firm, 
light tread he passed by; and most of them began at once 
to speak of him. 

“ He is just like the cartoon in Vanity Fair.” 

“ They think a lot of him in the House — the most 
promising of the young men.” 

“I wonder how old he is. Thirty-five, would you say? 
He’s not a bit bald.” 

“ I wish he would come to one of my Wednesdays.” 

The women and girls seemed drawn to him. By twos 
and threes they drifted through the open doors towards 
the remote tea-table by which he was standing. A tall 

2 


THE REST CURE 


girl in black velvet, who had taken him from Miss Sidonie 
and who sought to keep him to herself, was forced to relin- 
quish him for the common benefit. Soon Mr. Barnard was 
talking in the midst of a large feminine group. 

“ No, don’t believe half that you hear.” His voice, 
though low-pitched, carried far; it was strong without 
being loud. “ The House won’t adjourn till we have 
done our work. . . . Yes, go on through the Christ- 

mas holidays if necessary. Say what you please of the 
Government; but they’re all workers, no shirkers.” 

One could not admire him as handsome; but one had to 
confess that he possessed a striking face. He was clean- 
shaven, so that nothing was hidden — the resolute, al- 
most aggressive, character of the jaw, struck one first; 
but the lips were well-modeled, and the nose was good — 
perhaps a little too thick at the bridge and not quite wide 
enough at the nostrils. The eyes were good — the longer 
one looked at them, the better one thought them; and the 
square brow, with the stiff, dark hair growing upward in 
brush-like, bristling vigor, was very fine. Then perhaps 
everything struck one together — the broad shoulders, and 
the short bullish neck carrying the massive head so easily 
that one could not guess its weight and size; and one 
thought, vaguely, that he was a man who would prove of 
general utility in tableaux vivants. One could use him 
for Caesar, Samson, the gladiator, the executioner. His 
manner was self-confident, and yet free from a suspicion 
of self-conceit. He turned from one to another, speaking 
directly, if not abruptly; he paid no compliments, and 
altogether ignored them when paid to him; but an oc- 
casional curtness of tone was softened by a pleasant, candid 
smile. 

The women found no fault in his manner, and derived a 
curious pleasure from his smiling curtness. When he 

3 


THE REST CURE 


moved away and talked to men, they followed him with 
their eyes. They were attracted because they had heard 
he was successful and would be more successful, because 
for the moment he was conspicuous, because he seemed so 
much a man — so overbearingly virile — amongst the 
weaklings in the stuffy atmosphere of Mrs. Finnemore’s 
flat; and, as the basis of their unanalyzed thought, there 
lay, subtly active, that sex instinct which impels women 
boldly to advance towards any conspicuous type of the 
conquering male, rather than modestly to retreat into 
corners and hide themselves. 

“ Can you tell me who is the fat person he is addressing 
now ? ” 

The fat person was the manager of the newspaper: a. 
broad, bland, h-less person who felt more at home in the 
office than in this elegant company. 

“ ’Ow’s rubber ? ” asked the manager. 

“ Oh, rubber is booming,” said John Barnard. 

“ Capital.” 

“ I want a word in your ear before I go.” 

“ ’Arf a dozen if you like,” and the honest manager 
laughed, stepped back, trod on a lady’s skirt, and obliter- 
ated himself in confusion. 

More and more the attention of the room concentrated 
itself on Mr. Barnard. Truly, from the point of view of 
a larger society he was a very small lion — just a self- 
made young man who had somehow got into Parliament and 
somehow made a little money. But here, in the nar- 
rowed horizon of dull mediocrity, he seemed to swell out 
into constantly increasing bulk. The cup-bearing youths 
watched him perhaps enviously. He was strong, and they 
were weak; he had made himself, and all the assistance of 
parents, guardians, and friends would never make them. 
The shaky dotards, perhaps envious, also, but desirous of 

4 


THE REST CURE 


concealing their envy, whispered about the man in the most 
laudatory fashion. 

“Yes, he is — as you say — on the crest of the wave. 
And deservedly there.” 

“ Just so. A marvelous business capacity — or so I 
am given to understand. Sort of fellow who would be 
useful as President of Board of Trade some day.” 

“But what are they doing with him now? They can- 
not leave him alone.” 

It was Miss Sidonie, gauche, blushing, breathless, say- 
ing, “ Dare I ask him, Mamma? Oh, if Mr. Barnard w*ould 
be so very kind,” and obtruding one of those preposterous 
and dreadful volumes called Confession-books. 

“ He is going to write his confession. . . . Oh, how 

delightful! . . . We must see his confession.” 

Marching again into the back room, with an attendant 
escort of maidens, Mr. John Barnard, M. P., seated him- 
self and filled a sheet of the silly book. He wrote swiftly 
and easily, as he might have filled in stock certificates for 
one of his companies, having a task to perform and wishing 
to polish it off without w T aste of time. He made no slightest 
effort to be witty or clever or original; he merely filled in 
the blanks, one after another, as fast as he could. 

Your favorite author f “ Darwin.” 

“Oughtn’t that to come lower down?” said someone, in 
an awed whisper. “ There’s a space for greatest scien- 
tist.” 

“ Hush,” said the tall girl in velvet, reprovingly. 

She was not very young, and her eyes looked tired, as if 
she had read too much small print, or looked too long for 
something obscure and inaccessible. A rather faded pret- 
tiness, allied with gracefulness of pose, made people speak of 
her habitually as a very interesting girl. 

“ Darwin,” she repeated ; and then, as if talking to her- 

5 


THE REST CURE 

sell, “Yes, I suppose he is the greatest — if one counts 
influence.” 

She said “ Hush ” to other people ; but she did not keep 
silent herself. She stood behind Mr. Barnard’s chair; she 
had insidiously pushed Miss Sidonie on one side; an out- 
sider might have erroneously concluded that the book be- 
longed to her — and the man, too, for the matter of that. 

Your favorite hero in history ?' 

Mr. Barnard unhesitatingly wrote “ Napoleon ” — adding 
in brisk pen-strokes, “ because he started from nowhere, and 
made the longest journey on record.” 

“ That’s a fine thought finely expressed,” said the girl in 
velvet. 

Your favorite hero in fiction? 

Mr. Barnard paused for the first time, and with knitted 
brows considered. 

“ Ah ! ” And the tall girl stooped, to whisper confi- 
dentially, “ Even you find it difficult to choose.” 

But Mr. Barnard’s difficulty for the moment was to 
think of any character at all in fiction. He was not a 
novel reader. 

“ Oliver Twist,” he wrote with exceeding rapidity, after 
the brief pause — “ because he asked for more.” 

The tall girl clapped her hands. “ Splendid ! Colossally 
cynical — and not a bit what you really mean.” 

Mr. Barnard’s task was nearly accomplished. He was 
filling the last space. 

What do you consider the greatest pleasure in life? 

“ The pleasure of being alive,” wrote Mr. Barnard. 

“ Yes,” said the tall girl. “ That’s so wonderful in you. 
It’s true — one feels it. You vibrate with life. After 
being with you, I always feel as if I had been standing in 
the wind.” 

Mr. Barnard was going. 


6 


THE REST CURE 


“ He is going,” said an expansive but tightly-laced matron. 
“ Do come to see us on Wednesday. Number Twenty- 
three — but I’ll send you the address. I won’t detain you. 
We know you are the busiest of mortals.” 

And in truth he was always busy. A restless worker, a 
man throbbing like a machine with ceaseless energy, he pushed 
ahead with steady purpose all day long, pumping activity 
into every empty minute, never idle, whether at office, club, 
or tea-party. No words, however lightly spoken, were ever 
wasted. He was busy now. He had come here with a 
purpose. He glanced round, seeking the managerial visitor, 
in order to polish off his little bit of business. 

“ Look here,” he said to the manager, with blunt ‘genial- 
ity. “ I want them to put in an article descriptive of the 
New Willingford Rubber Estate, but Finnemore objects. 
So I want you to back me up and say it ought to go in.” 

“ But I don’t like to interfere with the editor’s discretion.” 

“ No, but business is business. We have advertised 
heavily. I think you would be quite justified in exerting 
a little gentle pressure. Besides, the article would be very 
good reading.” 

“ Will you write the article yourself? ” 

“No; but I can put my hand on a chap who’ll do it 
better than I could — with photographs and so on. It will 
be just the thing for the Saturday edition*” 

“ Well, I’ll see what I can do.” 

“ Thanks. I rely on you. Good-by.” 

And Mr. John Barnard hurried off to attend to some- 
thing else. As he went through the open doorway, all the 
women were looking after him. When he had gone, a 
deeper vacuousness, a more oppressive insipidity fell upon 
the gathering. To the girl in velvet especially, it seemed 
as if the strong tonic wind had blown through the room; 
and now the windows were closed again. 

7 


II 


Perhaps the first time he showed true business capacity 
was when he refused to take over his father’s highly 
respectable practice as a solicitor at Willingford, Hamp- 
shire. 

He was eighteen then, hard at work in the offices of Mr. 
Barnard’s London agents, and he received an unexpected 
summons to come home for a family council — or rather 
a combined family appeal. Father’s health had begun to 
fail ; the burden of age was telling, too, on mother, and she 
pined for the supporting presence of her loved son; they 
both wanted strong, brave Jack — source of constant pride 
and increasing hope — to qualify himself as soon as pos- 
sible for partnership and succession. The elder son, 
Richard, had proved a failure; he handsomely acknowl- 
edged this himself; he willingly stood aside in favor of 
Jack, and joined his voice to the general entreaty. Mary, 
the simple, good-natured sister, added her prayers. 

“ There you are, Jack,” said Barnard Senior, confidently 
yet pleadingly. “ I’ll keep things together for the next 
few years; and then you shall relieve me. Not a bad 
offer, I think — and I hope you’ll think so, too. You will 
come back to an assured position — to settle down in your 
native town — with my name behind you, as counter bal- 
ance to you and inexperience.” 

To this little household — and, indeed, to the rest of 
Willingford — the world was bounded on the south by 
the Solent water, on the west and north by the New 
Forest, on the east by the unexplored downs or marshes 

8 


Mue 


THE REST CURE 


near Portsmouth. It was not easy to make them believe 
in a world beyond their reach. It was difficult to tell an 
affectionate old father that his offer might be good, but it 
was not good enough. Yet this was something that had to 
be done. 

Jack did it, little by little, during the three September 
days spent by him in his childhood’s home. 

It was a red-brick Georgian house, dignified without, 
capacious within, squarely planted in what had always been 
considered the best position of the High Street, opposite 
the Dolphin Hotel, between a butcher’s shop and a baker’s. 
Behind it there was a long strip of garden; and here he 
walked with his mother, and gradually unfolded the mapped 
course of his ambition. 

“ You must break it to father,” he said. “ I’m not 
going to be a solicitor at all. You see, success as a solicitor 
leads nowhere. No, I shall go to the bar.” 

“ The bar! Your father says the bar is so crowded.” 

“ There’s room at the top.” 

“ But how can you get there — right to the top — without 
influence, without money?” 

“ By work. There’s nothing in this world that work 
won’t do, if you put in enough of it.” 

The old mother was of humble origin, and had thought 
it grand to be the wife of a solicitor. A labor-worn hand 
pressed and twitched upon Jack’s arm while they discussed 
these lofty views and glorious uncertainties. Pride and 
fear mingled in her thoughts. It is a fine thing to rise 
like a soaring eagle — but then again one is safer on the 
ground. 

“As to money — just at first! Well, the governor is 
allowing me a hundred a year — and if he can continue the 
allowance for a little while, I shall regard it as a loan. I 
promise to pay it back. I shall get on fast — I mean to 

9 


THE REST CURE 


get on — trust me and I’ll do you credit. Mother, you’ve 
no idea how ambitious I am.” 

And he unfolded more of the mapped course, displaying 
marvels that dazzled the eye and took the breath away — 
Parliament; the lower chamber, the upper; coronet, robes 
of state, and what not overpoweringly magnificent. 

“ Of course,” said the mother, and her lips trembled, and 
her voice had a husky pathos, “ you must leave us, if you 
feel you ought to. Your father and I should be your best 
friends — shouldn’t stand in your way.” 

“ Well, I do feel that if I stayed here, it would be self- 
annihilation. It would be just falling asleep,” and he made 
a broad sweeping gesture of the right hand, “ with every- 
thing round me, and never waking.” 

They were at the bottom of the garden, amid the prolific 
autumn tangle of flowers, vegetables, and fruit trees. One 
looked out over many similar gardens, all surrounded by 
low brick walls, across the unseen river to the tranquil hill- 
side, where long shadows lay upon the bare fields, and the 
white obelisk gleamed softly in the afternoon sunlight. It 
was warm but not hot, with pleasant harvest perfumes 
drifting on the air. 

In neighboring gardens, quiet, respectable women were idly 
busy, picking flowers or cutting beans. These were the se- 
date wives of the comfortable shop-keepers. At their 
backs were the solid houses of the High Street — all of 
them old. 

It was extraordinarily peaceful, in these gardens of the 
sleepy little town : almost more so, it seemed to him, than in 
the solitude of the open country. In the wild woodlands 
one is conscious of work behind the silence — the activity 
of nature, trees struggling for existence, prey-hunting crea- 
tures that steal along beneath the cover of the undergrowth. 
And birds spring up with noisy cries, startling one by their 
10 


THE REST CURE 


strength and life. But here, among the unchanging houses, 
nothing struggled or pressed forward — it was not life, only 
a gentle, soothing dream of life. 

“ Of course,” said the mother, after blowing her nose 
and wiping her eyes, “ of course, if you feel about it like 
that. But Jack,” and she looked at him with solemn sim- 
plicity, “ there’s something that you might find here and you 
mayn’t find anywhere else.” 

“ What’s that, mother ? ” 

“ Happiness! . . . You’ve made these grand plans, 

but there’s a lot left out of them. Where’s love? Where 
does that come in? . . . Jack, my dear boy, before I 

die, I’d like to see you married to a good woman.” 

Jack laughed gayly. 

“ Oh, women ! I reckon that for fifteen years I can’t 
afford to think of them — good or bad. Then I hope to 
be rich enough to marry. And then my wife shall be good 
as well as beautiful — and I think she will have a handle 
to her name. Nothing helps a rising man like an aristo- 
cratic marriage.” 

Dick and Mary had been sauntering together at a re- 
spectful distance, not venturing to plunge hurriedly upon 
talk of so great moment. They waited until their mother 
returned to the house, and then they shyly came forward 
to join in the concerted family appeal. 

“ I do hope,” said Dick, looking diffidently at his masterful 
young brother, “ that you’ll be able to do what our parents 
wish.” 

“ No, I doubt if it will be possible.” 

“ It’s for you to decide,” said Dick, with humbleness. “ I 
shouldn’t have the arrogance to advise you. But you know 
it will be a great disappointment to the mater. You have 
almost all her love, old chap. I don’t mean that,” he 
hastened to add, “ as complaining. No, it’s very natural 

ii 


THE REST CURE 


and proper — in the circumstances. I only meant that l 
am nobody — so I can’t attempt to fill your place.” 

“ Oh, Jack,” said amiable, stupid Mary, “ if you could 
stop with us forever, it would be nice.” 

Everything with Mary was nice or not nice. She at- 
tempted no other classification. 

“ Really,” said Jack, smiling, “ two stay-at-homes are 
enough in one family. You mustn’t ask for a third.” 

“ It’s for him to decide,” repeated Dick; and then, as if 
his mind had wandered from the subject of debate, he 
chuckled rather foolishly. “ Jack, old chap, have they told 
you of my good luck — in the literary line? ” 

“ No.” 

Dick tapped his brother on the chest, and chuckled 
again. 

“ I wrote a long letter in the Willingford Chronicle. 
About Christian Science! It was accepted at once. And 
I’m writing another one — on Mysticism and Materialism. 

. . . I’ve been steeping myself in philosophy lately.” 

“Yes,” said Mary, “Dick talks nothing but philosophy. 
Mother doesn’t think it very nice. And it makes father 
quite angry.” 

“ There’s an immense deal in philosophy,” said Dick, 
with a queer assumption of doggedness. “ It’s a comfort 
to me, and I don’t intend to drop it.” 

Jack looked at him pityingly. Poor old Dick! Surely 
never had the town of Willingford produced a more lament- 
able failure. 

From boyhood he had been good-ftatured and kind, very 
kind; but he would not work. He would watch railway 
trucks being shunted; he would travel to and fro on the 
steam-boats that plied between Willingford harbor and the 
Isle of Wight; he would go off into the forest, and chase 
butterflies or collect birds’ eggs ; but languor and clumsiness 
12 


THE REST CURE 


prevented him from enjoying either regular labor or regu- 
lar sport. Perhaps his most salient characteristic used to 
be a deep love of his bedroom. It was a large apartment 
with dormer windows in the roof, next to a room that had 
never been furnished. Dick made of his own room a for- 
tress, and of the adjoining room a playground. The for- 
tress contained masses of incongruous property : packing 
cases, broken boxes, strange contrivances fashioned by rud- 
est carpentry. Everything in the house that was smashed, 
and ought to have been thrown upon the rubbish heap, found 
its way upstairs. For a little while Dick kept animals up 
here — a secret confided to little Jack. The guinea pigs 
themselves, and not Jack, betrayed the secret. Papa mis- 
took the odors of this hidden menagerie for a gross defect 
in the drains, and wrote his landlord just the kind of letter 
you might expect from an indignant tenant who happened 
also to be a solicitor. 

At twenty-five, Dick was still the boy who would not 
work. He had a little boat, and sailed about the shallow 
river, crossing and recrossing the wake of the passenger 
steam-boats; his friends were the ticket-inspectors on the 
pier, the hands from the yacht-builders’ yards, stokers, 
lightermen; and his one great ambition was to ride on the 
foot-plate of the Bournemouth express. “ First stop, 
Christchurch! Think of that! Oh, dad, couldn’t you get 
me a permit from the railway company? ” 

Yet not without gifts — some sort of dim and undevel- 
oped intelligence; able to talk — in a rambling, radical, 
socialistic style — he sometimes astonished dad during a 
protracted argument. 

Father said, “ The boy has faculties. He has not such 
faculties as his brother.” Faculty w’as a favorite w r ord 
with Barnard Senior. “ But, oh, how I wish he would 
take up something in earnest ! ” 

2 13 


THE REST CURE 

And at last Dick did take up something in deadly earn- 
est — drink. 

It was a horrible phase; but he emerged from it. He 
suddenly swore to a pledge of total abstinence, and dis- 
played a dirty strip of blue ribbon in his shabby pea-jacket. 
But he seemed to go to pieces under the violent passage 
from alcohol to water. He had been puffy and white, with 
a big paunch. Now he became thin and reddish-nosed, with 
a scanty, straggling beard, and gray streaks in the receding 
hair on his forehead. Only his eyes were unchanged — 
dreamy, childish, unable to flash into enthusiasm except for 
nonsense. 

Jack remembered all these things, and felt a warm glow 
of affectionate pity, while Dick talked to him of the com- 
fort of philosophy. 

He had quite made up his mind; and yet, in the enervat- 
ing home atmosphere, doubts and self-questionings troubled 
him. He thought of himself and of his family. Could it 
possibly be right to sacrifice one’s self to the immediate sat- 
isfaction of others? 

The father and mother who loved him and craved for 
him were fast passing from the realm of substance to the 
realm of shadows. Soon they would have gone — have 
changed from facts to memories; and then where would he 
be? Left here, with the brother and sister, to fade in his 
turn from reality to nothingness. He, as well as they, 
might sink into incompetence, poverty, death-in-life. It 
would eventually prove a futile, useless sacrifice; as when 
a man, marching at night with an army, is drawn from his 
place in the ranks by faint cries for help, goes groping 
through the darkness, and is himself destroyed. 

No, if really he is to help these dear weak people, he 
must march forward — to return later on, bringing power- 

14 


THE REST CURE 


ful succor. He can help them from a distance more 
effectually than at hands’ reach. It will be practically kinder 
to leave them than to stay with them. 

Ten times kinder for them, and how many million times 
kinder for himself? He thought of a long career as the 
most eminent solicitor in Willingford, and shook himself, 
as if throwing off a damp and heavy cloak. Suicide, spun 
out for fifty years in its accomplishment ! 

He left them at the end of the third day. His parents 
insisted upon hiring a fly from the Dolphin and driving 
him to the junction five miles off, to catch the evening ex- 
press. This arrangement would save him trouble, and 
give them his company to the last possible moment. Their 
boy was going out into the world, to conquer it. Who 
could say how long he might require for the task, or when 
they would see him again ? 

As they drove out of the town there came the sound of a 
distant gun — the signal of sun-down at Cowes or Yar- 
mouth. It was like a dull blow on the heart, and the old 
father roused himself and talked cheerfully. 

“ You’ll write to us often — won’t you, Jack? ” 

There was a glorious sunset. While they drove across 
the common, the sky from the horizon upwards slowly 
filled with orange-golden light; and then slowly became 
suffused with rose tints. From this high ground one’s 
view ranged over the stretching forest — a vast gray sea. 
Imperceptibly the rose color deepened and glowed; until, 
when they drove among tall pines, the sky seen through 
the dark trees was like red fire. 

The transition from the open common and the wide view 
to the darkness and mystery of the road where it passed 
beneath the trees was remarkable. All fell silent; dead 
leaves softened the noise of wheels and hoofs; the old 

15 


THE REST CURE 


couple sat motionless as ghosts; and Jack’s thought flowed 
deeper and more rapidly along his mapped course. It w r as 
as if he had been the only live thing, passing through a 
dead shadowland. 

Brockenhurst station, with platform lamps and signal 
lamps twinkling, with the red sky behind it, looked fine. 
He was impatient as they stood together waiting for the 
train, which was not due for a quarter of an hour. Very 
soon now it grew dark. The sky above the big forest 
trees began to show stars faintly — and when one glanced 
up again, night had come. Mars glittered fiercely and 
redly. 

He felt full of health, full of strength, full of confidence; 
and almost wished that the world was larger, so that he 
might have more to conquer. 


Ill 


He was called to the bar, and made some slight suc- 
cess at once. He wrote articles for the newspapers — not 
airy, imaginative trifles, but plain expositions of facts. Be- 
fore he received his first brief he had obtained permanent 
employment on two responsible journals as city and finan- 
cial correspondent. He studied commercial law — com- 
pany acts, bankruptcy acts, and so forth — with white-hot 
ardor. He taught himself to speak of his facts, as well 
as to write about them. He spouted and debated, in 
Institutes, Athenaeums, Hornsey and Peckham Parliaments. 
He put the work in, as he had promised. It was a desperate, 
unceasing fight, but he liked it. 

In a few years he was not only keeping himself, but was 
paying back the annual allowance. A hundred a year 
going into the High Street house instead of going out of it 
— something very useful now to the feeble old man who 
pottered about the dusty, unfrequented office, and boasted 
to rare clients of his clever, prospering son. 

In these same years there came to unresting John Bar- 
nard mental pictures of the sleepy High Street and the red- 
brick house, of the father growing so woefully feeble that 
doctors said the end was near, of the gray-haired mother 
shedding tears of pride and stifling her selfish desires to 
hold the world-conqueror in her arms — and with the 
swift thought-pictures came transitory regrets. These were 
like calls, of which the sound waves rippled to him through 
space, or transmitted themselves on impalpable threads that 
sometimes for a few moments pulled at his heart-strings. 

17 


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But he had to resist them. On one side, his work; on the 
other, sentiment, sympathy, disturbing emotion. He was 
faithful to the mapped course. And soon the pictures faded, 
the calls grew faint, the threads broke. 

After his father’s death, when he ran down for the 
funeral, he was able to tell the widow that he would in 
future allow her three hundred a year. That is to say, he 
was now in a position to do for his family three times as 
much as his family had done for him. And this substantial 
aid was really needed. The famous practice had dwindled 
nearly to nothing; and all that remained of it died with the 
practitioner. One glance at the office gave John a correct 
perception of the state of affairs. Cracked tin boxes and 
rusty locks, fly-blown auction bills, pens corroded with stale 
ink — why, if all that had been offered to him as inherit- 
ance were divided into lots and sold to the highest bidders, 
the brass plate and the letter-press would fetch as much as 
the good-will. 

Having dried his mother’s tears and assured her that 
his generosity was justified by his earning power, he hurried 
back to London and his work. 

He did better and better at the bar. He had important 
briefs. He appeared conspicuously in the interminable liti- 
gation that follows the collapse of big companies. Solicitors 
to new companies thought fifty guineas cheap for his opinion 
on a draft prospectus. He spoke in public now — upon 
platforms of political meetings instead of behind desks in 
school-room debating societies — and was known to and 
encouraged by party organizations. People said that no 
impecunious young barrister had ever made such rapid 
progress. 

But the progress was too slow for John Barnard. A 
chance of a business job came to him, and he took it. Some 
man interested in Ceylon tea-gardens wanted a longer head 

18 


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than his own as guide through the intricacies of a blighted 
enterprise. A good thing going to ruin for want of grit 
in its possessors — wonderful estates out there, which won’t 
grow fragrant tea, but which might grow oozing rubber 

— if one could get a man, a real man, to go out and knock 
all these duffers’ heads together, plant common sense in 
overseers, plant hardy trees in the ground. Something to 
do in this long vacation — yes, John Barnard will go. It 
will be very hot out there; but the niggers have to work 
in the hot weather — why should white men shirk? 

He went to Ceylon, and stayed there three months — 
right into the cool weather. In that time he successfully 
performed his commission, and learned everything worth 
knowing about the island. No doubt as to the importance 
of rubber-growing in Ceylon ; the industry is going to be 
a big thing, a very big thing. He mastered the subject of 
rubber; and he did not waste one hour on sacred monuments, 
pearl-divers, or Veddahs. 

He returned with a cabin trunk full of statistics, plans, 
tracings, photographs; and, better still, concessions, options, 
conditional leases, etc., etc. By the new year he had 
launched a rubber company and was engaged on the flotation 
of a second company. He saw his way clearly before him, 
and deliberately abandoned wig and gown for desk and 
type-writing machine. He must throw himself into business 

— pure business. It was not a failure in pursuing the 
mapped course, but the discovery of a short cut that would 
carry him quicker to the goal. 

He had no capital, but he would bring the driving power 
of his brain. He would take his fees as chairman, his 
salaries and percentages of profit as manager ; and he would 
earn then. All small things, these companies, but all ab- 
solutely real — genuine enterprise from start to finish. He 
would not touch a rotten thing or a blown-out thing. 

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And soon he would occupy a unique position; he would be 
like one of the greatest company promoters on the smallest 
scale. 

During the summer that followed his Ceylon trip, there 
came a call to which he could not turn a deaf ear. Old 
Mrs. Barnard urgently implored his presence in the nar- 
rowed home circle, for the purpose of frustrating an impru- 
dent marriage that was being plotted by his elder brother. 

He worked all the way dowm in the train — complicated 
statements with figures that required careful analysis, 
agents 5 reports that asked for close verification, proofs of 
balance sheets that must be purged of the smallest printer’s 
error — full occupation for the three hours’ journey. 
When he packed his papers in the leather bag and looked 
out of the window, the train was creeping into Willing- 
ford. The place seemed strange to him. The muddy, shal- 
low river, the tiled roofs of the town, and the low hillside 
looked infinitely tame, absurdly insignificant. A long time 
had passed since he had seen this trivial landscape in a 
mental picture. 

“ Oh, Jack,” cried the mother, “ do avert the disgrace. 
Do use your authority. You are the head of the family — 
to whom we owe everything. You have the right to be 
firm. Do shake the nonsense out of him.” 

She was perceptibly older, much grayer and more frail; 
the fingers that clutched his strong right hand had a feeble, 
spasmodic quiver. 

1 11 do what I can, mother — since you are set against 
the alliance. But tell me, who is the young lady.” 

She is not a lady at all. She is just a common serving 
girl, down in the Harbor Refreshment Rooms.” 

“ A decent girl? ” 

U No, 5 said the mother, “ indecent! A disgrace to any 
20 


THE REST CURE 


respectable family. All the town knows her character. It 
was a public scandal.” 

“ You can’t be surprised,” said Mary, “ that mother 
doesn’t think it nice. No one but Dick would have sug- 
gested such a thing — but Dick has become too nonsensical.” 

“ Shake the nonsense out of him,” said the mother again. 

“ As mother says,” Mary continued, “ it was a wide- 
spread scandal ; and what makes it worse is this — the man 
who ought to have married her is still employed about the 
town. That isn’t nice for any of us, is it? ” 

“ Our only hope is in you,” said the mother, with pas- 
sionate entreaty. “ If you can’t shake the nonsense out of 
him, he’ll do it.” 

“Where is old Dick?” 

“ He’s waiting to see you. He has pledged himself to 
listen respectfully to all you have to say.” 

“ Very well. Then I won’t lose time in getting to 
work.” 

Dick, produced by Mary, greeted his brother sheepishly 
but affectionately. 

“ Come out for a stroll with me, will you, Jack? Come 
down the town, and I’ll give you a cup of tea.” 

“ By all means,” said John Barnard ; and, as they passed 
out into the High Street, he smilingly asked, “ Shall I be 
privileged to meet your siren at tea? ” 

“ The girl who has promised to be my wife,” said Dick, 
“ will wait upon us.” 

Then they walked side by side in silence, down the High 
Street to the Harbor Rooms. 

No one seeing them seated together at the tea-table in the 
humble eating-house would have guessed that they were 
brothers. Indeed, they formed so strong a contrast that 
they might have been representatives of different races and 
different worlds. The younger man, in his neat London 

21 


THE REST CURE 


clothes, with well-brushed, close-cropped hair, and perfectly 
shaven face, seemed an embodiment of purposeful force, 
opulent health, and self-possessed prosperity. He squared 
his heavy shoulders, raised his broad forehead, and scruti- 
nized people and things with steel-bright attention. The 
older man, in a shabby long-shore suit of dittos, with gray, 
untidy head and dreamy, introspective eyes, sat limply on 
his chair, and sprawled a lean arm and dirty hand across 
the stained tablecloth. His wavering lips drooped at the 
corners; and he stared at the floor as if not looking at the 
dusty mats, but into some vague, unmeasured depths. 

Barnard observed all the outward signs of sloth and neg- 
lect — from the grimy flannel shirt that showed behind the 
faded red tie to the black crescents that lurked beneath the 
untrimmed finger nails. Outwardly, his poor old brother re- 
minded him of some autumn vegetable — say a cabbage — 
run to seed in a forgotten corner of one of the High Street 
gardens. 

The waitress brought the tea things, and nervously clat- 
tered the saucers and cups as she put them on the table. 

“ Nellie,” said Dick, “ this is my brother. Shake hands 
with him.” 

The girl obeyed shyly, looking at the redoubtable 
stranger in obvious trepidation. She had the prettiness of 
a draggled, broken flower on a stalk that is too weak to 
keep its head high in the sunlight. She was fair-haired, 
slim, anaemic — type of the pretty house-servant who has not 
stamina to resist the importunities of her master and is soon 
bundled into the streets by her justly-offended mistress. 

“ Mr. Richard has told me all about you, sir,” she mur- 
mured lispingly. “ And I hope you’ll be our friend. I’m 
sure we want friends — him and me. . . . Comine 

sir.” 

A seafaring gentleman at the other end of the room was 
22 


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tapping his spoon against his cup, and she bustled off, on 
her high heels, to take the gentleman’s commands. 

When they had drunk their tea, the brothers walked 
together by the river. Dick, with hands that shook percepti- 
bly, was a long while filling and lighting his blackened 
pipe. 

“ I can’t talk unless I smoke,” he said jerkily. “ Well, 
what do you think of her? ” 

“ She is certainly pretty.” 

“No, I meant her — herself ” 

“ May I speak quite frankly — without too much deli- 
cacy? ” 

Dick flushed. 

“ Do you ever speak in any other way? ” 

“ I don’t want to force my advice on you. I thought 
you wanted my opinion.” 

“Yes, I do. That is, I am to have your opinion. I 
promised mother to listen to you. Go on — with your 
opinion.” 

“ Then, she seems to me a pleasant, kind, obliging sort 
of girl — and very comfortable where she is. Why not 
leave her where she is? ” 

“ Because I have need of her somewhere else — by my 
side, till death us do part.” 

“ Have you considered whether that isn’t a sentimental 
inclination, rather than a rational necessity? ” 

There were tears in Dick’s blue eyes as he answered. “ I 
want her — not altogether selfishly, though she’ll be my 
salvation, I do believe. She can help me in many ways. 
Old temptations may return, if I’m always alone.” 

And John Barnard surmised that this was an allusion to 
the ancient craving for ardent drink. 

“ Alone? ” he echoed. “ You have the mater and Mary.” 

“ They don’t understand me.” 

23 


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“ But, in regard to a married helpmate, there are certain 
attributes — qualifications — credentials that men of the 
world make a sine qua non. People are particular when 
they engage a cook. When it is a matter of taking a 
wife . . 

“Yes?” 

“ I’d better come to the point. Aren’t there bad marks 
against her name? Isn’t it common knowledge that she has 
made at least one lapse from strict propriety? ” 

“ Well,” said Dick defiantly, “ I don’t mind that.” 

Barnard shrugged his shoulders. 

“ Oh, of course, if you have none of the usual preju- 
dices — ” 

“ It is what she is now — not what she was. All that’s 
over and done’ with.” 

“ Yours is a lenient view.” 

“ Not too lenient. She might say to me, ‘ I won’t marry 
you, because you are a drunkard ? ’ But that’s not true, I 
•was a drunkard. I’m not a drunkard now.” 

“ So the past is to be wiped out? No turning back of 
the page, no looking up previous convictions to see if the 
plaintiff enters the court with a clean record.” 

“ I don’t mind about her past for a very simple reason, 
I won’t think of it. And if I don’t think of it, it doesn’t 
exist — I mean, for me” 

“ That’s very convenient, but it isn’t at all my notion of 
a husband’s attitude.” 

“ But you and I, Jack, look at these matters so differ- 
ently.” 

“ Everyone has his own point of view.” 

“Yes, Jack; but my view is from the opposite stand- 
point.” 

“ Everything has two sides, of course.” 

“Yes; but some people have the faculty of coming round 

24 


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in imagination to the other side. I think I have it myself 
— to a certain extent. But I don’t think you have.” 

John Barnard shrugged his shoulders again, and laughed. 

“ Limited intelligence, eh ? I haven’t yet felt my lim- 
itations, but you may be a better judge of such deficiencies.” 

“ You must know,” said Dick eagerly, “ that I didn’t 
mean to be rude — or to say anything disparaging. We all 
admire your powers. I, most of all, perhaps;” and his 
voice had the husky catch of a too facile emotion. “ I was 
very fond of you, as a little chap.” 

“ Thanks.” 

“ No, all I meant was this — we work by different 
standards. Some things that you hold as important seem 
to me of little consequence.” 

“ What, for instance? Virtue in the other sex? ” 

Dick winced, as if he had been struck. 

“You needn’t have said that. No, I mean — You think 
it of paramount importance to get on in the world — to make 
money. Now I don’t.” 

“ My dear chap, how should you — if you are content to 
let your relations keep you all your life?” 

“ I haven’t tried to earn money.” 

“ Well, it isn’t easy till you try — and not always easy 
then.” 

“ Quite so. I dare say I should have failed. I’m sure 
you deserve unstinted praise for succeeding. But what I’m 
endeavoring to express is something deeper than mere ap- 
pearances. If you understood me, it would be so much 
easier to talk with you freely.” 

“ Expound your ideas, and if I can pick out the 
thread — ” 

“ You are a man of action; I am a man of thought. But 
I don’t admit that’s a reason why I should be treated with 
contempt.” 


25 


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“ Certainly not.” 

“ In my philosophy, thoughts are as important as actions 
— and often have more effect.” 

“You mean — as an example — that a man may write a 
book which will have more influence on the world’s prog- 
ress than a great battle fought by some man of action ? ” 

“Yes,” said Dick eagerly, “that’s what I think, exactly.” 

“ But, my dear fellow, there’s nothing very new in such 
ideas. All this has been said over and over again.” 

“ Yes, but do you admit its truth? ” 

“ Of course I do. It’s a truism — a platitude.” 

“ It seems to me,” said Dick, “ to contain the essential 
explanation of almost everything.” 

“ Look here. Let’s stick to the point. Your book- 
writer! Do you deduce that he is justified in turning his 
back on the battle, retiring into a comfortable room, and 
calmly putting his thoughts on paper while the ruck of man- 
kind sweat and bleed and die to keep him safe? ” 

“ Yes, yes.” 

“ But you don’t see that the test or justification can 
rarely be applied in the man’s lifetime. It is only the ulti- 
mate success of the book that justifies him — and how can 
he gauge that? ” 

“He leaves it to chance.” 

“ Yes,” said Barnard, scornfully, “ and only one man in 
twenty millions hits a nail on the head — that is, leaves be- 
hind him a theory that proves of use to posterity. Sup- 
pose his thoughts are intrinsically valueless?” 

“ They are of value to him.” 

“ You are arguing in a circle. . . . Suppose, too, that 

your battle-shirker is lazy. Alone in his snug room, he 
dozes by the fire — when the world knocks at his door, he 
is asleep.” 

“ Well, what of that? ” 


26 


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“Isn’t it rather a contemptible situation? Anyhow, the 
battle-field would have kept him awake ." 

“ The battle-field is over-crowded,” said Dick dreamily. 

‘ There are more troops than can be maneuvered. They 
trample one another to death in meaningless movements, 
killing more friends than foes — and they don’t know what 
they are fighting for.” 

“ That’s not a bad picture of the Stock Exchange, just 
now ; ” and Barnard laughed genially. 

“Or of any other place where people are gathered to- 
gether in the belief that man’s highest destiny is to do as 
much and to think as little as possible.” 

Barnard laughed again, and with friendly heartiness 
clapped his brother on the shoulder. 

“ No, your theory of thought won’t hold water. It 
would result in justifying a man dreaming through life 
— with the thoughts, such as they were, all in his own 
head.” 

“ But I don’t admit that the thoughts are lost — really 
wasted — even then. After all, to each man the whole 
world is in that man — not outside him. . . . There. 
That sums it up — and there is the barrier between us. To 
you, all is external. To me, all lies here,” and he rubbed 
his forehead with an unwashed, tremulous hand. 

For a long time the erring, anaemic waitress had been for- 
gotten. Dick was not now pleading his cause. He was 
high in those clouds to which drink, indolence, scanty and 
ill-digested reading had slowly wafted him through the 
eventless years. John Barnard, as a practical man, sought to 
bring him down to the dull earth. 

“ Dick,” he said presently, “ I want to help you. At 
least let me try.” 

It was plain to him now that shaking the nonsense out of 
his brother would prove a task of such magnitude that it 
27 


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could not be polished off before the last train left for Lon- 
don. 

“You reminded me,” he went on, “of our early affec- 
tion — and I remember, naturally, how kind you always 
were. So I want you to give me credit for this — that I 
have your best interests at heart.” 

“Yes,” said Dick; and once more his eyes filled with 
tears. 

“ Well, then, I tell you that you are a silly old dreamer. 
Now wake with me — for an hour — and then, if you must, 
go back to your dream.” 

Dick shook his head, and gazed across the water at the 
flagstaff that stands near the Harbor Refreshment Rooms. 

“ I don’t blame you,” his brother continued, “ for being 
a dreamer. It’s not your fault. It’s the way they brought 
you up — and sticking here for over forty years. It’s the air 
of this place.” 

“ The air suits me.” 

“ Try a change. Come back to London with me this 
evening.” 

“ Oh, no. If I ever went anywhere, it would be thou- 
sands of miles away — to Florida, probably.” 

“ Come and stay with me for a few days. Make the 
effort, rouse yourself, and I believe all this non — this 
vague sentiment will be blown away. London is the center 
of the universe. Come to the great focus of life, and of 
thought, too. London draws everything to it — even the 
nicest waitresses. Come and see the young ladies at the 
big tea-shops — hundreds, thousands of them.” 

“ Oh, no,” said Dick, as if in fear. “ I couldn’t do 
that.” 

“ Come with me for one day.” 

“ You’re very kind, but I couldn’t possibly manage it.” 

“ All right,” said Barnard ; and the broad shoulders were 
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shrugged as he glanced at his watch. “ Then I’m afraid 
I can’t help you.” 

“You can help me,” said Dick, “in one way only — 
don’t interfere with me.” His voice quavered, and his 
whole tone was that of a child appealing to the tolerance 
of a grown-up person. “ Let me go my own road. Don’t 
prevent me.” 

“How can I prevent you?” 

“ Oh, you know your power. The poor mater thinks — ” 

“ She says it will break her heart.” 

“ That’s rubbish, of course. You know that. The mater 
is naturally easy-going. She’ll reconcile herself to it, if you 
don’t speak to her against it.” 

“ I fancy you underestimate your mother’s pride. She 
has considerable pride.” 

“ Yes,” cried Dick, with sudden violence. “ She is puffed 
up by a vicarious pride in your success. But that’s not 
fair to me;” and he clenched a fist and struck his breast. 
“ I don’t envy you ; I stand by and admire — and say ‘ God 
bless and prosper you.’ But I won’t be tied like a slave in 
the triumphal march. And I — I won’t suffer this girl to 
be thrown down and smashed by your Juggernaut car. Do 
you see ? Do you understand that ? ” 

It was pitiable to observe the weakness mingling with the 
violence of this outburst. The raised voice wasn’t strong 
enough to be heard on the other side of the river; even the 
dramatic blow on the chest was slow, and feebly delivered. 

“ Don’t excite yourself, Dick. There’s no occasion to 
scream.” 

“ Very well, then — ” 

“ Leaving pride out of the question, your mother has a 
keen sense of the fitness of things — social position, and 
so forth. She never has believed in moving people out of 
their proper sphere.” 

3 


29 


THE REST CURE 


“No — except you. Proper sphere!” and there came 
from Dick another weak outburst. “ Proper sphere! Good 
God! what are-fve? The children of a poor attorney and 
a farmer’s daughter, in an obscure little country town. 
The real gentle- folk don’t recognize us — after half a cen- 
tury — won’t visit us. Admiral This and Colonel That 
hold us so cheaply that they can’t discriminate between us 
and the shop-keepers. And yet now we are to talk as if we 
were belted earls or dukes and duchesses, and be careful — 
very careful — who we introduce into our august family. 
. . . Yet twist the thing round — suppose you want 
to marry above you. The mater says you ought to marry 
some heavy swell. Then , if those of higher rank don’t 
recognize your worth, don’t welcome you with open arms, 
we are to call them snobs, tyrants, petty-minded brutes. 
. . . That’s half the trouble with the mater, I do 
believe. She thinks my marriage may somehow check your 
career — cause you annoyance or shame when you want to 
rise an inch or two higher.” 

“ She need not think that.” 

Barnard knew now that the nonsense was not to be shaken 
out of Dick either to-day or to-morrow. It was curious, 
but for a few moments respect rather than pity changed his 
thought. Could it be that cranky, cloudy, muddle-headed 
Dick was getting the best of the argument? 

“What I ask you, Jack — for auld lang syne — for 
the memory of dead kindness — is to tell mother that you 
don’t mind — that you are strong enough to rise unchecked, 
in spite of a hundred brothers and their humble wives.” 

“ Yes, I can safely say as much as that.” 

“If you say a word to her of that sort, she’ll do all that 
is necessary.” 

“ What do you want her to do? ” 

“Just to cease opposition — to let me have my two pounds 
30 


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a week — to come and see us now and then in our cottage. 
She’ll do as much as that. It’s not what she ought to do.” 

“ What ought she to do? ” 

“ Why, take Nellie into our home — as her daughter — • 
as my sister’s sister; ” and Dick spoke slowly and wistfully. 
“Let me keep my own room, that I love; and just paper 
the empty room, and put in a few sticks of furniture, for 
our sitting-room. Then she would gain a daughter, and 
not lose a son. That’s the Christian thing, the philosophical 
thing, the right thing to do. But she can’t attain to that. 
. . . That is the class of action that only comes from 

thought; and she has never thought in her life.” 

John Barnard carried back to London, as well as his 
leather bag and annotated papers, a somewhat confused im- 
pression of this long talk. In his recollection of the diffuse 
chatter, there was an uncomfortable sense of vagueness and 
unreality. One of Dick’s phrases, with its odd accompany- 
ing gestures, stuck in his memory. “ I am endeavoring to 
express something deeper than the mere appearance of 
things.” Poor old Dick! Did he ever quite know what 
he meant by the words that seemed to tumble haphazard 
out of his undecided-looking mouth? 

They had parted at Willingford station on thoroughly 
affectionate terms. Dick hung about the door of the com- 
partment, shook hands again and again, would not go away 
till the train started. 

“ Good-by, dear old boy,” he said, with the last shaking 
of hands. “ I do feel that we understand each other better 
now. We can understand, though we can’t agree. Re- 
member, whenever you review my conduct, that you stand 
for action, and / stand for thought. So we cant agree — 
because we are opposite poles — positive and negative.” 


IV 


Dick married his blonde waitress, and lived with her in a 
cottage by the water. He had transplanted the bruised 
flower, and he tended it lovingly. But the stem was too 
weak; nothing would keep its head high: the flower was 
soon lying on the mud once more for all the w T orld to 
trample it. 

John Barnard, in London, took the matter up again, 
after two years, at the point where Dick wanted to be set 
free. Dick confessed that the marriage had been a mis- 
take, and he wished to get out of it — at all costs. John 
paid the cost for him — undefended divorce case with more 
than one co-respondent, decree nisi, decree absolute, etc., 
etc. — and, what was immensely to his credit, he never said 
“ I told you so.” 

By this time he was M. P. for a metropolitan constitu- 
ency. He had done his bit of dirty work for the party, and 
by making a stiff, game fight for an impossible seat had de- 
cided those in authority to push him to the front without 
further delay His modest little companies were doing well. 
He lived in spacious rooms, belonged to good clubs, enjoyed a 
steadily expanding income ; and had saved exactly ten thou- 
sand pounds. 

Perhaps, having been compelled to attend to the business of 
the family when releasing Dick from his bonds, he deter- 
mined that it would economize time were he to wind up 
the family business completely. Or perhaps he was only 
doing now what he had always intended to do. 

He gave the ten thousand pounds, as a free gift, to his 
3Z 


THE REST CURE 


mother. Here was an earnest of success, something solid 
to show for his toil, a palpable, irrefutable achievement. 
And he could be happy after this in comfortably reflecting 
that he had fulfilled all obligations. No far-off, faintly- 
heard calls need worry him after this. 

It was fine in a sense because the gift of all his hoard 
showed such resolute self-confidence. It left him again with 
nothing — except his brain and his health. But, with these 
possessions, he felt absolutely safe. 

“ It will be pleasanter,” he wrote to his mother, “ for 
you to be drawing your dividends like a lady of property, 
instead of drawing quarterly cheques from me. I am in- 
vesting the money so as to bring you a safe four per cent. — 
that is, an income (less tax) of nearly four hundred. With 
the addition of what came to you from father, you can 
now allow yourself to feel all the ease and security of mind 
that spring from ease and security of circumstances.” 

He could not write in a manner that was not business- 
like. The words flowed smoothly and naturally from his 
pen. It was only when he attempted some little turn of 
sentiment that the nib seemed to hesitate, flounder, and 
stick fast in the paper. 

“ I can assure you, my dear mother, that I heartily wish 
I could avail myself of your invitation to spend the Christ- 
mas holidays at the dear old home — ” and the pen went very 
slow. “ You know my unchanging love. But the fact is, 
my time is so heavily mortgaged — ” and the pen went fast 
and free. 

“ In regard to your modest little fortune, it has occurred 
to me that a proper disposition of it in the future would be 
to divide it equally between Dick and Mary. Assuming 
that you will concur in this view, I am preparing the nec- 
essary document in the simplest form, and I propose to run 
down with it for execution at the earliest possible oppor- 

33 


THE REST CURE 


tunity — probably some Saturday afternoon. The transac- 
tion will then be completed, all in order, and none of us 
need ever think of it again. Your always loving son, John.” 

Many Saturdays passed before he could snatch a few 
vacant hours ; but at last he appeared, vigorous, alert, hurry- 
ing, black bag in hand. 

Mrs. Barnard signed the document in the presence of 
loving John and the housemaid, who each in the presence of 
the other attested her signature. 

“ Well, Dick, old chap, I’ve just witnessed your mother’s 
will. Now, you aren’t a lawyer, but I wonder if you are 
sharp enough to know what that means.” 

“ Does it mean,” asked Dick anxiously, “ that the mater 
feels her strength waning?” 

“ It means that I can’t benefit under the will. But I 
don’t want to — so that’s all right.” 

. “ How can it be right, though, if the money you are now 
giving — your own money, not father’s — isn’t ever to re- 
turn to you ? ” 

“It was my money. It is mother’s now.” And the 
benefactor went on, impressively, “ Dick, this is just some- 
thing I wanted to do. It is done now, and I shall never 
again speak of it to anybody.” 

“ I’m sure you’re very noble and generous,” said Dick, 
feebly. 

“Not a bit. But now — whether you think that or 
not — I want to put a solemn charge on you. I shall rely 
on you to stay here as watchdog, and look after our mother.” 

“ To stay here always? ” 

“Well, isn’t that precisely what suits you? You like 
it — you’ve always liked it. You have your old room again. 
You can be as happy as the day is long.” 

“ I was thinking that I’d like to go thousands of miles 
away — to Florida. 


34 


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“ Why on earth to Florida? ” 

“ I don’t know. And yet I have such a strong idea that 
I would be happy out there. I can’t be happy in Willing- 
ford — after all that has happened.” 

“ But, Dick, really you must think of others as well as 
yourself. You can’t shirk all duties. You see how I am 
situated — it is outside my power to take this charge upon 
myself.” 

“ But Mary? Why not Mary? ” 

“ I could never feel assured that all here was going on 
safely if mother had no better guardian than Mary.” 

“ Then I suppose I must do what you wish.” 

“ You really must, old boy. And in the nature of things, 
it can’t be for long.” 

“ Oh, don’t say that,” and Dick shivered. 

“ It is painful to speak of; but facts are facts, and noth- 
ing is ever gained by refusing to look facts in the face. 
The mater is breaking up fast. Poor dear — she shows all 
the signs of rapid decay. Then there you have the plain 
fact: it is the duty of us to render her few remaining years 
as comfortable as possible. I have done my part; you must 
do yours.” 

Dick took up the solemn charge. He would relieve his 
toiling brother of care and anxiety; he promised to be a 
faithful watchdog till death should pay a second visit to the 
quiet house. 

“ And then,” said John Barnard, “ you will have done your 
duty, and you can go to Florida with a light heart. . . . 

And you can take Mary to Florida. It’s very unlikely that 
Mary will ever find a husband — so that you two can be 
companions to the end of the chapter.” 

He went on with his work, financial, commercial, politi- 
cal; and if, when he closed his eyes after the arduous day, 
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he saw mental pictures, these were of fields with hardy 
three-year-old rubber trees ripe for tapping, of board-rooms, 
House of Commons Committee rooms, Cabinet-meeting 
rooms, and never of the walled garden and the paneled 
parlor at home. If he dreamed, his dreams were of busi- 
ness chances taken, of business opportunities missed, and not 
of excuses hurriedly despatched, of sick-bed visits omitted. 

As he had said, facts are facts. Old Mrs. Barnard did not 
long enjoy the fortune provided by a munificent and suc- 
cessful son. Three years, four years — he had not counted 
the years till he stood among the black figures at the grave- 
side. It was a dull November day, after a night of heavy 
rain, and the wet earth steamed. The trees and houses be- 
yond the gates of the cemetery were blurred and vague in 
the white mist. He looked about him with dry eyes; and 
yet all that he saw seemed unreal, unsubstantial. The faces 
of his brother and sister were white and red, swollen, con- 
torted, actively grimacing in spasms of unreasoning grief; 
and he, who had been loved so much more than they, sought 
vainly for a few minutes to feel again emotions that had 
gone for ever. His brain, strong as it was, refused an un- 
necessary labor, and would not give him back the thoughts 
that should have supplemented his black clothes, banded hat, 
and the rest of the mourner’s conventional outfit, with a 
ready flow of tears. It was as if the knowledge that to-day’s 
sad ceremony belonged to the order of things that are inev- 
itable, paralyzed the imagination, shut off memory of what 
lay in the past or conjecture as to what lay in the future. 
And this, no doubt, was the explanation of that curious 
sense of unreality which he experienced throughout the burial 
rites. He had so well prepared himself for all that was 
here happening that the events, as they occurred in their due 
sequence, passed almost unnoticed. Facts are facts: no one 
can live for ever. 


36 


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Before a month had passed, his brother and sister bade 
him good-by and sailed for Florida. All trouble was taken 
off their hands by him. He had done everything for them 
— had wound up the estate, settled with the landlord as to 
surrender of the empty house, disposed of the furniture. 
Thanks to him, helpless Dick and foolish Mary were pos- 
sessed of sufficient means to maintain them in idleness for 
the rest of their days. Both parents reposed mutely under 
the granite slabs and iron chains paid for by him ; their little 
garden of eight feet by six would be kept neat and tidy in 
accordance with the contract he had made with the nursery- 
man; the hyacinths and the roses that should bloom above 
them as per contract in March and June would have their 
roots in his pocket. 

In a word, he had at last finished the business. If he 
ever thought of his family again, the thought need be no 
more distracting or harassing than when he remembered 
some docketed, pigeon-holed, stamped and receipted ac- 
count. It had been a heavy bill ; but there it was, receipted 
as Paid in full . 


V 


Now the time had come for him to get married, and there 
were two girls by whom he felt attracted. 

Sibyl Dallinger was the stepdaughter of a well-known 
K. C. Probably on the wrong side of thirty, she had plenty 
of style about her — and a fair amount of money. Pos- 
sibly she enjoyed as much as twelve hundred a year of her 
very own, with perhaps handsome expectations. The chance 
of touching big money — but her mother had to die, and then 
her stepfather, before you touched. Only one thing to put 
you off. She seemed a little faded, feeble, washed out, and 
somehow lacking in sheer femininity; too thin, in certain 
lights; not enough of her, herself — if you subtracted hat 
and feathers and velvet gown. Too shadow-like! Never- 
theless, a most elegant, graceful shadow to follow a man 
through life. And she was certainly ready to follow — 
would be ready to begin following to-morrow. He felt 
attracted. 

The other girl was young, healthy, hearty — Flo Kirby, 
by name, daughter of a struggling coal-broker. She seemed 
to him a jolly girl, with no style, but with a flash and glow 
of health, good temper, exuberant youth. And the feminine 
attributes were all there — from sentimentality to love of 
chocolates. But quite devoid of elegance — and no money 
— and, yes, even slightly vulgar. Never mind. A good 
strong helpmate for a busy man. She would do well at 
elections, or at home with jovial friends — although not so 
well at grand political evening parties, dinners with Cabinet 
chiefs, or state balls. He chaffed her, talked sentiment, 
38 


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gave her sweets — noticed her good clean teeth, and her 
decisive manner of cracking a rocky praline. He was more 
and more attracted. It would be the substance, not the 
shadow. 

These considerations often occupied his mind and ex- 
cluded all thought of pure business. 

After office hours, late on a November afternoon, he went 
to call upon Miss Dallinger at her comfortable home in Pont 
Street. He had been more or less under her attractive spell 
for the last fortnight; and the other girl lived such a long 
way off — at the far end of the Earls Court Road. How- 
ever, had he been in need of exercise, he could easily have 
broken the spell, and walked briskly on. 

“ Is Miss Dallinger at home? ” 

The young footman pulled back the mahogany door, to 
give a wide welcome to this late visitor. An elderly butler 
came forward, pushing the footman aside as if taking over 
an important task from his subordinate, and with respectful 
officiousness assisted the visitor to shed hat and overcoat. The 
hall was bright and warm ; there were pictures, busts, antique 
cabinets; one had a glimpse into a fire-lit room full of 
richly bound books; the staircase for a moment was dark, 
and then blazed into cheerful light, showing more pictures, 
an upper landing with white chrysanthemums that looked 
like paper flowers — the whole house was warm, pleasant, 
elegantly decorated with valuable objects, and the whole 
house and everything in it seemed to be asking him to marry 
Miss Dallinger. 

“ Miss Dallinger,” said the butler, with insinuating bland- 
ness, “ is upstairs, in the morning room.” 

That was what the butler said; but he really seemed to 
be saying, “ I’ve known her longer than I care to confess, 
and I give you my word you can’t do better. Don’t hesi- 
tate.” 


39 


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She flushed faintly, and drew in her breath with a little 
gasp of pleasure and hope, at the sight of Mr. Barnard. 

“ What happy chance brings me this unexpected honor ? ” 
and she held out the skirts of her purple velvet, and made 
him a smiling curtsy. 

“ I ought to apologize for turning up again like a bad 
penny.” 

“ Don’t fish for more compliments, when I have told you 
already I am glad. I am very glad — because I have been 
wretchedly moped and depressed.” 

“Really? Doesn’t this rainy weather suit you?” 

“ No, it doesn’t. It’s so relaxing that I longed for the 
east wind again.” 

Her gown was the same that she had worn at Mrs. Finne- 
more’s tea-party. But then there had been ermine round 
the neck of it; and now this was open, showing him her 
slender white throat and the too prominent inner ends of 
her collar bones. She moved an armchair for him, made 
him sit down, and he noticed her thin arms — no bigger or 
stronger than a child’s — as she pushed the heavy chair. 
It was doubtful if she weighed more than eight stone, al- 
though so tall. 

“ You may smoke, you know.” And she brought a silver 
box, gave him a cigarette, and offered him a lighted match. 
Their fingers touched as he took the match, and he fancied 
that this slight contact set her trembling. 

“ Aren’t you going to smoke, yourself? ” 

“ No,” she said, smiling at him. “ I smoke when I am 
all alone. I don’t care to mix my pleasures.” 

He sat by the fire in the deep chair, and was lulled and 
soothed by unusual sensations of pleasant indolence. Puffing 
at his cigarette, he listened carelessly while she talked to 
him, now with assumed lightness and now with exaggerated 
intensity. She was wooing him, as he well understood ; she 
40 


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was exerting all the force that lay in her to overcome his 
passive resistance; each change of tone, every word and ges- 
ture, were conscious efforts in the undeviating purpose of 
her courtship. 

“ What a dreadful week this has been in the House,” 
she said intensely. “ Two all-night sittings. I read your 
name in the last divisions — eight a. m. and nine-thirty. 
Aren’t you tired to death? ” 

“Not particularly. Do I look tired?” 

“No, you don’t. But then you seem to be outside the 
normal,” and she laughed lightly. “ Tell me. Are you 
ever tired ? ” 

“ Well, it would sound boastful if I said No. And yet, 
honestly, I can’t say Yes. Of course I’m often pleased 
when bedtime comes. But if it doesn’t come — as hap- 
pened on Tuesday and Wednesday — I get on all right with- 
out it.” 

“ You can begin the day’s work just the same? ” 

“ Well, the day’s work begins of itself. I can’t hinder 
it, can I ? ” 

“ I think you are too wonderful for words,” and her face 
became grave, with the expression of a person rendered 
silent by the vastness or height of a building — as, for in- 
stance, at the first view of the Cheops pyramid or Cologne 
Cathedral. 

She seemed to him, during her brief silence, very grace- 
ful — and almost pretty. Her eye-lashes, while the lids 
drooped, cast a shadow that made the orbits larger; the 
lamp-light shone through her fair hair, and made it as soft 
as the finest silk; a delicate, transparent hand, held to- 
wards the red fire-glow, was like beautifully modeled porce- 
lain. 

She broke the silence with a laugh, as if some humorous 
jest had come into her memory. 

41 


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“ I had the most tremendous adventure this morning — 
in a hansom cab.” 

“Really?” 

While she narrated her adventure, he was looking about 
the room — at the blue and white tiles on the hearth, the 
gilt screen and its little glass windows; at the water-color 
drawings, the photograph frames, the tables profusely laden 
with quaint silver and china toys; at all the innumerable 
objects that in this room, as in the other rooms of the house, 
gave one an impression of taste, affluence, long-settled com- 
fort. And he thought that if he wished for a house like this, 
she would provide it and manage it for him. 

“. . . As I say, the quadruped must have been at 

least twenty-three hands high — ” She was approaching the 
conclusion of her verbal sketch, and she stood up. “ So 
when he began to gallop, you may imagine the extent of 
the oscillation. I positively bounced about the cab ; ” and 
she laughed immoderately. “ Pill in a pill box! Well, we 
coasted round corners on one wheel, we banged every lamp- 
post, we were a worse nuisance than a run-away fire-en- 
gine; ” and there was more and quite unnecessary laughter. 
“I skipped out before the prehistoric horse had stopped; 
and when the cabby asked me to resume my seat, I said, 
‘No, my friend, you may have my money, but you shall 
not have my life.’ So I paid him his fare, and departed 
amidst curses, with much dignity.” 

“ I don’t blame you,” and he compelled himself to join in 
the unnecessary laughter. 

Not funny — that was the misfortune. It was a dread- 
ful echo of chilling entertainments in hotel saloons, of 
old-fashioned stories in Christmas numbers, of any long- 
winded stereotyped piece of facetiousness without one spark of 
wit. And all of it insincere, so far as she was concerned. 
He knew that nothing whatever had happened to her this 
42 


THE REST CURE 


morning; no horse had run away with her; she had not 
called a cabman “ My friend.” But he understood the 
purpose of the unsuccessful effort. She was saying to him, 
“ You would have an amusing companion in hours of relax- 
ation.” 

She sat down again meekly, and became serious, thought- 
ful, intense. 

“ I told you that I had been depressed. It was some- 
thing I saw to-day in Piccadilly,” and she shuddered. “ A 
small procession of the unemployed.” 

“ Ah, yes. There aren’t quite so many this winter.” 

“ No, but enough to make one’s heart ache.” 

As he understood her now, she was saying to him, “If 
you and I were married, I would be grave or gay just as 
you chose. I would watch your face with dog-like atten- 
tion, catch each fleeting mood, and respond to it docilely.” 

“ There were old and young,” she continued, “ all with 
the same shambling gait — dragging themselves along, 
starved, despairing, half dead.” 

“ Of course the problem is, Ought we really to keep 
them alive? We must do it; we can’t abandon them; we 
have pulled them after us in the progress of civilization, and 
we can’t throw them back on the laws of nature.” 

“ Oh, no, you can’t do that.” 

“ And yet it isn’t business. We foster the survival of the 
unfittest; at every stage we interfere with the struggle for 
existence.” 

“How you know your Darwin! ” 

“Indeed I don’t. I’ve no time for reading — never had. 
I go to books for facts. I once read sixty pages of “ The 
Origin of Species ” — and I found something in them that 
proved of enormous service to me. So I take my hat off 
to the late Charles Darwin.” 

“ Perhaps you are like Macaulay. They said he ab- 

43 


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sorbed the good out of a closed book through the cloth 
cover.” 

He shrugged his shoulders. Her flattery was not dis- 
pleasing to him ; especially he liked being told that she 
thought him wonderful ; but now she was overdoing it. 

“ The poor wretches,” she went on hurriedly, “ were 
creeping down Piccadilly, past all the splendid houses. That 
horrible, dismal rattle of the money-boxes must have been 
heard inside the palatial drawing-rooms and boudoirs; and 
really I marveled that the owners of these sumptuous abodes 
didn’t rush into the street to ask pardon of the outcasts.” 

“Piccadilly! Well, you know, as a fact, the houses are 
nearly all clubs — so there weren’t many owners to come 
out. Very few private residences left in Piccadilly.” 

“ Don’t be so cynical. Clubs or houses, what does it 
matter? The greedy, luxurious members could have come 
out. But they didn’t — not one of them.” 

“ Double windows ! They couldn’t hear.” 

“ But they could see — through the two sheets of glass. 
They wouldn't see'. They looked the other way, as rich 
people always do when Famine and Poverty stalk by their 
doors. . . . But I looked — and I nearly cried as I 

thought of the hideous disparity of fortune. Take my own 
poor little case. Good heavens, what have I ever done to 
deserve all this money to buy expensive frocks, to pay for 
this, that, and the other pleasure? How am I different 
from them ? ” 

He understood that she was reminding him of the twelve 
hundred per annum. She was saying, “ I shouldn’t stick 
you for my dress-makers’ bills, and I could keep a carriage 
— or a motor-car, if you preferred it — without charge to 
you.” 

“ Chance,” she went on, “ gave me parents with ample 
means, and made me an only child. Blind chance has or- 
44 


THE REST CURE 


dained that I am to inherit so much, while thousands of 
others are without the price of bare food and shelter.” 

She was telling him about the expectations now, and 
he looked round the room again, with a musing eye. Solid 
expectations ! That was what she meant by that word “ or- 
dained.” 

But the money did not draw him. The more he thought 
of it, the less he liked the idea of it. An income not earned 
by him would be a derogation of his own personal pride. 
It would weaken the joy in his unshaken self-reliance; it 
would rob him of half the triumph in his ultimate rounded- 
off success. Twenty years hence, people would say, “ Yes, 
he has done well; but he had a rich wife to help him.” He 
wanted no help. 

“ All these notions of the division of property,” she was 
saying, “ have come to me since I knew you . I’m growing 
more and more socialistic — and I used to be such a good 
Tory.” 

“ No — surely nothing so old-fashioned?” 

He was thinking that marriage is a necessity. But a 
wife and a house are not all. More important still are the 
children that are to be born in the house. Without them, 
the marriage is less than nothing and worse than nothing. 
The new generation, the small links of life that seem to 
lead one on to the comforting semblance of immortality — 
no man, however self-reliant, can safely deprive himself of 
progeny. He may boast of his iron frame, his perfect 
health, the energy of his brain and the activity of his 
muscles; but until he has given life to children, the man is 
not proved, the boast is not justified. “ You possess powers, 
then pass them on; you are a strong man, then make us 
some more strong men in your own image.” That is what 
Nature demands of her favorites; and Nature is terrible 
in her vengeance to those who play her false by ignoring 
4 45 


THE REST CURE 


the demand. Yet in this task, obviously, the man must 
have help from the woman. Not money, but a good 
physique, is what a wife should bring to the marriage con- 
tract. Is it business — can it ever be business — to asso- 
ciate oneself with a weak partner? 

“I’ll show you a little pres — an unexpected little pres 
from a faithful admirer.” She left her chair skittishly, and 
went laughing across the room to her silver table. “ He 
really is the most devoted admirer, and he sent me this 
yesterday.” She picked up a silver pig, and .made Mr. 
Barnard examine “ its wee, wee eyes and its ducky little 
curling tail.” 

She had been too facetious a few minutes ago, and now 
she was too skittish — altogether too young for her age. 
He thought of a woman he knew — the wife of a vulcan- 
ized-rubber merchant — who was fat, gray, sixty years old, 
and yet absurdly infantile in manner. 

“ Perhaps,” she said archly, “ I ought to mention that 
the admirer is a contemporary of my stepfather’s. He 
is a judge of the High Court — Sir Frederick Saunders — 
but he is quite my slave.” 

While she replaced the silver pig and came back to her 
chair, he was thinking of the children. He watched her, 
and thought that she was really pretty and quite ex- 
traordinarily graceful; but too thin, too fragile, not nearly 
big enough round the hips; and, above all, she was over 
thirty — just the sort of woman to die in child-birth. The 
other girl would never do that. 

He rose from the low chair, and stretched himself. 

“ Well, I have paid you a very lengthy visitation.” 

“ Don’t go.” 

She put her hand in his, and her eyes had a pleading in- 
tentness as she begged him to remain with her. 

“ Stay to dinner.” 


46 


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“ I am not dressed.” 

“Who cares? What an excuse! Please stay. My 
stepfather is dining at the Athenaeum, with counsel learned 
in the law. Mummy is rather seedy. Are you afraid of 
a tete-a-tete evening? I’ll read to you- — an astonishingly 
clever poem by a new poet ; and you shall smoke to me — 
like the young man in Punch , don’t you know. . . . Am 

I presumptuous? Say yes. You have no engagement to- 
night.” 

He hesitated. While she was talking, he thought that 
he would stay. 

“ No,” he said abruptly. “ I can’t. I have something 
else to do.” 

Yet he held her hand lingeringly for a few more mo- 
ments, as if even now disposed to change his mind again. 
He was undoubtedly attracted by her. But the attraction 
was not physical: it was some charm that she cast upon his 
intellect, with insufficient power over his senses. 

He hailed a taxicab in Sloane Street, and went straight 
to the house at the far end of the Earl’s Court Road. 

“ Are Mrs. Kirby and the young ladies at home? ” 

“ Oh, come inside, sir,” said the parlor maid. “ The 
master and Mrs. Kirby are off to a party, but I’m sure 
Miss Flora will be glad to see you.” 

There were hats and coats in the shabby exiguous hall. 
The' whole house had a poverty-stricken aspect, with its 
lamentable oleographs, worn carpets, faded curtains, and 
common furniture. Through closed doors came noisy 
sounds — piano-playing, laughter, shrill voices. And the 
poor little house with all its confused noises seemed to ask 
him to marry the girl and be done with it. 

“Mr. Barnard!” cried Mrs. Kirby. “Never! Speak 
of an angel and you’ll hear his wings. We were talking of 
you all afternoon. Weren’t we, Flo? ” 

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Mrs. Kirby, florid, obese, voluble, had hastily draped 
herself in a peignoir and come bustling to the fireless draw- 
ing-room; and Miss Flo, radiant but shy, had immediately 
followed her. 

“ For goodness sake, Flora,” said Mrs. Kirby, “ light the 
other gas jets. Fancy Sarah leaving Mr. Barnard here 
with one jet — and no fire either. But we’re all at sixes 
and sevens, Mr. Barnard. Father and I are getting ready 
for a big affair at the Murchisons — so we can’t ask you to 
take pot luck with us, as I should wish.” 

“How are you, Barnard?” The master of the house 
showed his red face at the drawing-room door. “I’m chang- 
ing my clothes. Take pot luck some other day,” and he 
withdrew again. 

“ I must leave Flo to entertain you a few minutes,” said 
Mrs. Kirby, “ or I shall be late.” 

John Barnard was looking at Miss Flo, and mentally 
comparing her with the other one. 

This one was brown-haired, brown-eyed, red-lipped, with 
ample blood-color in her firm cheeks. She wore a black 
blouse and a blue serge skirt; and her plump, well-rounded 
figure adequately filled these simple garments. A leather 
belt girdled her neat but not too slender waist. 

“Mrs. Kirby, may I take her out to dinner? I mean, 
just as she is — at some quiet restaurant, and then go and 
see a play? I’ll take care of her.” 

Miss Flo’s face lit up more brightly than it had done 
just now under the extra gas jets. 

“ Oh,” said Mrs. Kirby doubtfully, “ I don’t think that 
would be quite the thing — without a chaperon.” 

“ Why not? I’m old enough to be her father.” 

“Certainly you’re no such thing,” cried Mrs. Kirby; 
and she tossed her head and laughed, as if saying very 
plainly without words, “ Don’t try that kind of rubbish with 
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me. You are old enough to be her husband, and not a day 
older.” 

“ Well, then, may one of her sisters come, too? ” 

“ Ah, that would be more the thing. Flo, dear, run and 
ask father.” 

But brown-eyed Flo was pouting at her mother, or mak- 
ing some secret signals of defiance and displeasure. Poor 
child, perhaps she thought, “ This is the chance of a lifetime, 
and now it is to be upset by blundering parents and idiotic 
conventions.” Poor mamma, too. Perhaps she read the 
thought; she wanted to do the best she could for her 
daughter, but she feared that the child might be “ cheapen- 
ing herself.” 

“ After all,” said Mrs. Kirby, “ two is company and 
three is none.” 

And Miss Flora ran off — not to consult papa or to 
invite a sister, but to put on her hat and jacket. 

“ Thank you very much, Mr. Barnard,” she said glee- 
fully, as she hopped into the taxicab that had been waiting 
at the door. 

They dined at a small French restaurant in Jermyn Street, 
and then went to the upper boxes of the nearest theater. 
John Barnard enjoyed his evening, although the play ap- 
peared to him inconceivably unlike anything that could 
occur in real life. The fable concerned itself with the 
financial and domestic affairs of a colossally strong million- 
aire, a creature of granite thews and volcanically eruptive 
passions; and from the business point of view all the detail 
was hopelessly wrong. This hero, operating on the Stock 
Exchange by telephonic communication with his brokers, 
long after the Stock Exchange must have been shut and 
the brokers gone home to Clapham, made and lost three 
millions within the space of three minutes. In the grand 
/ scene he bellowed at the lover, but did not hit him — the 

49 


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idea being that he was so strong than no one would survive 
a blow; and yet he pulled about his guilty wife in a most 
remorseless fashion when the lover had slunk out trembling. 
He shook her, dragged her to and fro, almost trampled 
upon her. It all seemed ridiculous to John Barnard. 

But to his innocent young companion it was all delight- 
ful. 

“ I simply love it,” she whispered. 

Her cheeks glowed, her eyes shone, she neglected her 
chocolates ; she clutched at his arm, and held it uncon- 
sciously and convulsively during the grand scene. When 
the act drop descended, she was flushed, panting, quivering 
with emotion. 

“ He is like you ” she whispered. “ That’s just how 
you’d go on.” 

“ Oh, I hope I shouldn’t make such an ass of myself.” 

“ Do you think him an ass? I think he is too sweet.” 

They drove back in a four-wheeler, because four-wheelers 
are slower and darker than taxi-cabs. John Barnard was 
under the spell of the girl’s healthy plumpness and youth- 
ful, candid manner. But the attraction was merely physi- 
cal — some charm thrown upon his senses by the propinquity 
of the rounded figure in the serge skirt and cloth jacket, 
without the faintest intellectual disturbance caused by com- 
munion of mind and mind. He could break the spell at any 
moment ; although, while he yielded to it, there was a pleasant 
quickening of the blood, a warm diffused glow throughout his 
nervous system. When they reached a badly-lit empty road 
and he suggested that she should kiss him, he was not 
sure whether she would adopt the suggestion. But she 
adopted it — handsomely. 

“ That’s to thank you — to thank you very much.” 

In the friendly darkness he had pulled her upon his knees ; 
and she held her arms about him and pressed her lips to 
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his, with a slow, ardent joy in this first embrace, as if she 
were giving herself to him irrevocably and completely. 

For the rest of the drive he yielded to the spell; but 
all the while his senses were under the absolute control 
of the higher brain centers. Intellectually he was undis- 
turbed. “ Perhaps I ought to have brought the sister/’ he 
was saying to himself. “ Now, no nonsense. This 
mustn’t go too far. Above all — no hasty, ill-considered 
words.” 

Even with the warm lips pressing and the round arms 
clinging, he thought, “ In twenty years she will be as 
broad and as fat as her mother. All these charms of exu- 
berant youth will have vanished; and I shall have at my 
side on state occasions a red, foolish, and rather vulgar 
middle-aged woman of whom I may be heartily ashamed.” 

“ Good night.” The cab had reached the common- 
place, shabby house. 

“ Good night, Miss Flora. I hope you haven’t been 
bored.” 

“ I’ve loved it — all of it: the last part most of all.” 

The house looked somber, miserable, hopeless, as she 
stood at the door, gazing back at him. The parlor-maid, 
letting her in, looked dismal and forlorn — seeming to say: 
“Nothing definite? Nothing settled? Oh, you shouldn’t 
have cheapened yourself by going out with him alone.” 

A week passed, two weeks passed, and he had not called 
again upon either young lady. But after a fortnight, with 
impressions weakening, he began to reconsider the matter. 
Marriage a necessity — and this wife-choosing always a 
ticklish job! Perhaps a man might do worse than in taking 
shadowy Miss Dallinger or substantial Miss Kirby. 

In either marriage there would be a certain amount of 
failure, a slight or a considerable divergence from the 

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mapped course. He had intended to marry what they used 
to call “ a lady of quality.” The plan of the “ high mar- 
riage ” had not sprung from any snobbish craving. Not 
a bit — it was merely the desire to stamp his success with 
the hall-mark of public esteem. People would say or think, 
“Yes, he began as nobody; but he has made himself some- 
body. He is good enough now for this heavy swell to give 
him his daughter.” 

Yet, after all, what does the hall-mark matter? If the 
metal will stand any test you care to apply, it need not be 
labeled or guaranteed. Only fools will require a certificate 
of value before they deal with it. . , . 

But then, after a few more days, fate intervened; and 
John Barnard fell in love, and the chances of Miss Dal- 
linger and Miss Kirby were gone for ever. 


VI 


In his constituency there was a Literary and Artistic 
Institution, founded many years ago, to elevate the thoughts 
of humble working people, to provide them with instructive 
and amusing evenings, to break down class barriers and to 
bring the lowly into sympathetic touch with those who 
habitually moved upon a higher social plane. John Bar- 
nard had readily consented to deliver a lecture in the big 
room of this Society — “No. 8 of the winter session, A 
Discourse by Our Member, Tea and Light Refreshments ” — 
but he had not so readily prepared himself with materials 
for the lecture. The date approached, and the secretary 
wrote anxiously to inquire what Mr. Barnard’s subject 
would be. The printer was waiting to print the evening’s 
programme. 

It happened that on a railway journey Mr. Barnard had 
recently purchased a shilling copy of selected writings of 
Tolstoy, and, swiftly skimming the pages, had marked 
several “ quotable bits ” for future use. He promptly de- 
termined to use the bits at once, and wrote with the utmost 
confidence to the secretary, informing him that the subject 
of No. 8 w T ould be Socialism and the Tolstoy Ideal . 

With no further preparation he ascended the platform; 
and while a benevolent High Church Canon made an intro- 
ductory speech, he calmly surveyed his audience. 

At the back of the hall there were quite humble folk, 
mechanics, factory girls, mothers and children, who shuffled 
their feet, blew their noses, coughed, and stared with regret 
at the empty gallery where they had hoped to see a magic 
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lantern; nearer to the platform were comfortable middle- 
class people, small tradesmen and so forth, members of the 
Society and their friends ; and in the front rows sat the upper 
classes, clergymen with distinguished visitors, women in 
silks and satins, men wearing stiffly starched shirt fronts. 
The lecture should draw all this incongruous company 
together, making them mingle in spirit, so that they would 
actually mingle with happiness and ease when they met after- 
wards at the buffet of the refreshment room — a task not 
without difficulty for any lecturer, however well prepared. 

John Barnard, glancing down at the upturned faces, 
noticed in the front row a gray old man and a dark-haired 
girl. Apparently the girl felt cold; for she had drawn 
her fur cloak about her bare shoulders. And apparently 
she felt bored; for her eyes moved as if in search of any- 
thing worth attention, and she raised a white gloved hand 
to conceal an incipient yawn. The lecturer thought care- 
lessly that she looked like a proud and bored princess who 
had come here to make his task more difficult. 

“ Ladies and gentlemen, it has given me much pleasure 
to accept the kind invitation of your committee ” — with the 
briefest prelude Mr. Barnard set to work. He wanted to 
finish the job, and get away; but, as with any piece of work, 
however small, however unimportant, he put his back into it. 

The discourse contained very little of idealistic Tolstoy 
and a great deal of practical Barnard. It was a defense of 
Radical measures, given with a genial enthusiasm that soon 
struck out responsive warmth — something abrupt, some- 
thing scrappy, on these lines: Hunger, dirt, disease — 
stunted bodies, crushed hearts, and stifled intelligences — 
should such things be? Tory and Radical, we all feel and 
say No. But they cannot be prevented. Can’t they? Well, 
we try — and we blunder — and we fail. And then the 
Conservatives come into power, and do a little for us. 

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They adopt the schemes — our schemes — that they have 
condemned as madmen’s dreams, and they honestly strive 
to convert the delirious fancies into sane facts. . . . 
Never mind who takes the credit — if only something is 
done. It is a fight worthy of any man; and no man worth 
anything cares who gets the glory if the fight is won. 

“ But I say, if you can’t fight, don’t laugh at us. Don’t 
stop the, fighters. What are you afraid of? The peril of 
interference with individual freedom, the peril of handing 
over to the state the unguarded money-bags, the misman- 
aged home, the undisciplined family? No danger in it. 
Safety, really — and good business. You are agreed that 
it is right to spend millions on your old people, your sick 
people, your incompetent, useless, profitless people; but you 
think it wrong to take charge of the innocent children — 
the people of the future. Is this business? You don’t 
act on the theory in your gardens, your farms, your stables, 
or your own nurseries. Only in your slums, in the dark 
and pestilential holes where the young life of the nation 
is being poisoned at its source — only there the filthy home 
is sacred; the infamous mother is the safest guide and 
guardian to the little helpless child. . . 

Nothing new in the words, and in their arrangement not 
one imaginative flight, beautiful metaphor, or gracefully 
turning phrase; but the voice rang well, the tone was 
magnetic, and the resolute face was eloquent of strong 
faith. Manner always counts for more than matter on 
these occasions, and the extempore harangue was very 
warmly received. Once, when the speaker paused and 
looked down at his audience, he observed that the young 
woman in the front row was sitting with clasped hands. 
She had thrown back the fur cloak, and with it she seemed 
also to have cast off her burden of ennui. She seemed 
really to be interested, intensely interested. 

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After the lecture, when the classes were mingling in the 
tea-room, Mr. Barnard was thanked and complimented by 
the, committee, the clergymen, and many of the distinguished 
guests. 

“ Excellent. The very thing we wanted. Quite im- 
possible to thank you sufficiently.” He stood, surrounded 
by amicable friends and flattering strangers — the hero 
of the hour, who could not get away, although his work 
was done. 

“ Let me,” said the secretary, gently pulling his elbow 
and nearly upsetting his cup of tea, “ do let me introduce 
you to Lord Rathkeale — and to Lady Edith Moville.” 

John Barnard saved the tea-cup with an adroit gesture, 
and bowed to the old man and the girl who had been sitting 
in the front row. 

“ Capital,” said Lord Rathkeale. “ I thoroughly en- 
joyed it. So moderate and sensible. It was most palata- 
ble to me — because I’m ready to go nearly ail the journey 
with you young revolutionists. But what I can’t stand is 
all the big drum and banner tricks. Now there’s nothing 
of that sort about you. Is there, Edith? He hasn’t even 
got a red tie; ” and the old fellow laughed genially. 

Then, almost immediately, John Barnard gave up hope of 
getting away. This gray old lord was a friendly, expansive 
creature, and Barnard soon recognized in him a very well- 
known type. With his charming, friendly manner, his 
aristocratic placidity, and his happy Irish inconsequence, 
Lord Rathkeale was essentially similar to many men that 
one meets in the world of business. They are the born 
time-masters. You cannot hurry them or hinder them; 
there is nothing to be done with them, unless you humor 
them and spend time on them. They talk to doctors about 
the new pictures at the National Gallery instead of de- 
scribing their ailments; when they go into bank parlors to 
56 


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look at deeds or arrange overdrafts, they describe the back- 
wardness of the fruit blossom all the way from Woking to 
Exeter: except when they are asleep, they are wasting 
other people’s valuable time. 

“ Purest accident, our coming here,” said Lord Rath- 
keale; “but now I’m very glad we did come. Canon 
Frenching persuaded us. I told my daughter it would be 
all maps and statistics. When we came in, I whispered 
to her, ‘No maps!’ You know — map of darkest Lon- 
don — air spaces and lungs — how the poor live — cubic 
contents of bedrooms in Mayfair and Limehouse. So I 
said, ‘ Faith, if he has left his maps at home, we’re in for 
the statistics with a vengeance,’ ” and he laughed again. 
“ No such thing, however. Very enjoyable.” 

While his lordship chattered, Barnard was offering tea 
and sugary cakes to Lady Edith. She acknowledged each 
of his civilities with a gracious smile, but she did not attempt 
to join in the conversation. Barnard thought she had the 
air now of a pale, cold princess who has been brought into 
queer company and been amused there, but who slowly re- 
sumes the aloofness and inaccessibility proper to those who 
live in palaces and drive out to the music of massed bands 
through streets lined with saluting troops. 

“Have you ever come across my son — Roscrea? He 
was in the House of Commons ten years ago — before your 
time, I suppose. Now’ there's a fellow who means to save 
the world by chemical discovery — devotes himself to lab- 
oratory work.” . . . 

Suddenly a thought flashed through Barnard’s mind. 
If this silent girl began to attract a man, the attraction 
would be physical, mental, everything altogether — if you 
let yourself go, she would just bowl you over, put you out of 
play, work the devil with you. 

“ Roscrea means to feed us with chemical food. Con- 

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centrated nourishment — you’ve heard of it, haven’t you ? 
A lozenge containing a Lord Mayor’s banquet compressed 
into the size of a sixpence. Put your dinner and supper 
in your waistcoat pocket, and swallow ’em when you want 
’em.” 

She was tall, but not too tall. She was the just mean 
of those two other girls — indescribably more elegant and 
well-bred than Miss Dallinger, the shadow, and ten times 
more beautiful than Miss Kirby, the highly colored sub- 
stance. He observed some details in her appearance, with- 
out an attempt to analyze them or even to split up the im- 
pression that they created as a whole. 

The soft luster of pearls round her throat; the rich glow 
of satin beneath the sables; dark hair, and so much of it as 
to seem almost untidy — not in truth untidy, but unat- 
tainable; pallor, but not the whiteness of feeble health; 
and a dusky splendor about the eyes when you directly met 
her untroubled glance at you — these were the things he 
noticed; and of things that he merely felt were a sense of 
elusiveness and mystery, a suggestion of unreached depths, 
a vague, unformulated desire to reach the stream of inner, 
secret life flowing deep and silent below the splendid un- 
ruffled surface. 

“ You must come and dine with us,” said Lord Rathkeale. 
“ I’ll ask Roscrea to meet you — but we won’t give you his 
lozenges instead of roast mutton. I really should enjoy a 
good long chat with you.” . . . 

The picture had stamped itself on John Barnard’s brain, 
so that he could carry it away with him as surely as if it 
had been a tinted photograph in a gold frame. But all 
round her picture, instead of a rigid border, there was an 
indefinite, widening fringe — the empty zone that in our 
minds must always surround an object that has been seen and 
not understood. 


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“ Eighty-five, Albemarle Street. Come any night — 
soon. Of course I haven’t a card — Write it down on the 
back of an envelope. I haven’t used a dozen cards in the 
last twenty years. But I’ll send you a line. Edith, re- 
mind me to drop a line to Mr. Bartram.” 

“ Mr. Barnard,” said Lady Edith, in a prompting whis- 
per. 

“Mr. Barnard! Of course. I’m one of those unhappy 
people who never remember names. Not so faces! If a 
fellow sells me an umbrella, and I meet him twenty years, 
afterwards, I know the fellow’s face.” 

Before going to bed John Barnard walked about his ca- 
pacious rooms. They were rooms in that new building of 
the Temple which offers its inmates all modern improve- 
ments, lift, bathroom, as well as the ancient view of the 
Thames, the quiet and the peace of cloistered courts. He 
had furnished them with the somewhat gaudy profuseness 
of the self-made man who makes a first attempt to com- 
bine comfort and luxury. He marched backwards and for- 
wards between the large dining-room and the larger 
reception-room — stirred to this automatic and persistent 
movement by a faint discomfort and irritation. 

“ Suppose,” he said to himself, really articulating the 
words, “suppose I could get her for my wife!” And 
with the muttered words there came a sharp increase of the 
feeling of discomfort. He shook himself, turned abruptly to 
the fireplace, and picked up a pipe and tobacco pouch. 

It was exactly as when a man shivers and says to himself, 
“ I hope I haven’t caught a cold.” Such a shiver means 
that the hostile germs which have entered the system are 
beginning to make themselves at home and show an im- 
pudent activity. Medicine will be too late; the cold might 
have been prevented, but it can’t be cured; it must run its 
course. 

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So now, with this case, it was the microbe of love; and 
hard-headed John Barnard was in for a severe attack of 
love-sickness. 


VII 


He went to dine with his new friends; and before the 
evening was over he had learnt all that there was to know 
about Lord and Lady Rathkeale. 

“ I like that fellow what’s-his-name,” said the host, after 
the guest had gone. “ Bartrand — I shall never get it 
right — Barnard.” 

“Yes, I like him, too,” said the hostess. “I call him 
quite a magnetic man — so genuine.” 

“ He informs me he devotes himself to india rubber — 
of all things in the world — and that it is immensely re- 
munerative. Now, how extraordinary that is! Beyond 
those little erasers for taking out pencil marks, I can’t think 
what anyone wants rubber for.” 

“ Baths,” said Lady Rathkeale. “ Don’t you remember 
the portable bath you bought for Agatha when she was 
going to the Black Forest?” 

Old Rathkeale was an Irish peer without a seat in the 
Lords — and without an income sufficient to maintain any 
considerable state. Yet the rather gloomy house in Albe- 
marle Street struck Mr. Barnard on his first visit as pos- 
sessing an intrinsic grandeur. It wanted paint and gild- 
ing; its decorations were dim and tarnished; but there was 
a settled, old-established pomp about its shallow stairs and 
paneled walls, its marble mantelpieces, and lofty painted 
ceilings. It seemed to tell any plebeian visitor passing 
through its double doors that it was a house which had been 
lived in by generations of lords and ladies. 

Lady Rathkeale was English, amiable, corpulent; and 
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the first thing concerning her which Mr. Barnard noticed 
was that she had a fine appetite. 

“ Bring me some more of that fish,” said her ladyship. 

. . . “ I think I’ll have another cutlet. . . . 

Really I must indulge myself with a second slice of ham. 
But is there a bird coming? . . . Very well, I won’t 
then. I’ll wait for the bird.” 

“ Do you know Carlsbad ? ” she asked the visitor. “ My 
doctor sends me there every summer.” And John Barnard 
thought she must need the severe regimen of Carlsbad if 
she kept up this form regularly. 

Except Lord Roscrea — a married man immersed in his 
chemical experiments — all the family were gathered at 
the round table in the soft and gentle light diffused by many 
candles. Lady Agatha, the eldest daughter, was short- 
sighted, nervous, rather queer — just home from the South 
of France, and just going to the Engadine. She somehow 
reminded the visitor of his brother Dick ; and he guessed at 
once that there was something a little wrong with her — she 
was the odd one, the queer one, who needed great care and 
kindness. The change in the voices of the others, when 
they spoke to her, made him know that he had guessed cor- 
rectly. Lady Geraldine, the youngest sister, had her hair 
tied with ribbon, not done up yet: she was in the school- 
room or governess stage. Mr. Brian, aged eighteen, was 
cramming for the civil service, and he seemed a clever, 
hard-working lad. Lady Edith, the other sister, was the 
one the visitor had to avoid looking at too often and too 
fixedly. 

The young people afforded him a curious study in well-bred 
temperamental placidity. But they had just enough Irish 
happy-go-luckiness in the blood to keep them light-hearted. 
The English mother showed a natural stolidness that her 
children seemed to have taught her to carry easily; and 
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the father’s mercurial instabilities seemed to be checked and 
bridled by them. But obviously they were all great talkers 
— loving family debates, never quite so much interested in 
anything as in the family itself. They appeared to have 
one unfailing subject of discussion: the question whether 
they would ever go back to Setley Court, their place in 
Hampshire. They never knew whether they really 
wanted to go back or not; and thus the unanswered ques- 
tion opened out inexhaustible argument. 

“ I usen’t to feel well there in the winter,” said Lady 
Agatha, with a nervous shake of the head. “ So cold and 
damp.” 

“ But in the summer — and the spring. Will you ever 
forget the hawthorns that last June? ” 

“ If I can get a home appointment,” said Brian, “ I hope 
we shall go back. But if I have to go to India, I shan’t get 
a sight of it either way.” 

“ We have a trout stream,” said Lady Rathkeale, “ run- 
ning just below the garden — ” 

“ You lean over the balustrade,” said Lady Geraldine, 
excitedly, “ and you see the fish — the water’s so clear.” 

“ Are you fond of trout, Mr. Barnard ? ” asked Lady 
Rathkeale. “ I always think those trout they give one in 
Germany are so delicious.” 

“ For many reasons,” said Lady Edith, musingly — 
and Mr. Barnard watched her pensive face, instead of reply- 
ing to his hostess — “ for almost every reason, I should like to 
go back. We could never feel at home anywhere else. 
That’s certain.” 

This desirable residence, with its gardens, streams, and 
other amenities, was let furnished to an American of great 
age and vast means. He took the place for a year origi- 
nally, and continued to occupy it indefinitely — always keep- 
ing the family on tenterhooks — sending a formal letter 

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every six months to say that he will stay another six months. 
The anxiously expected letter had arrived two days ago ; and 
the Pall Mall agents say that they anticipate no immediate 
change of plans on the part of their client. 

John Barnard, plunged into the family debate on this first 
evening, gradually put together all these facts, and pres- 
ently understood everything. As to the terms of the ten- 
ancy, he hazarded a comment: “ It sounds a funny way of 
doing business.” 

“ Between you and me,” said Lord Rathkeale, “ I be- 
lieve the old chap thinks he can’t last much longer, and he 
is afraid of popping off suddenly. He doesn’t want to be 
paying me the rent when he is in his coffin. Poor old fel- 
low — I hope he’ll hang on for many years.” 

“Then we shall never be able to go back,” said young 
Geraldine ; and the debate broke out again — but complicated 
now with another favorite family question, Would this new 
Irish Act do father any good? Lord Rathkeale owned a 
castle and twenty thousand acres of land somewhere in the 
West of Ireland, and if, under their latest and most com- 
prehensive scheme, the Government chose to purchase this 
property at a fair price, Lord Rathkeale might be altogether 
set upon his legs. 

“ Then,” said Lady Geraldine, “ we could go back to Set- 
ley and afford to live there properly.” 

Lady Rathkeale laughed. “ I am inclined to agree with 
Geraldine. I would say, Don’t let us go back unless we 
can really afford it. In the depths of the country one is so 
dependent on all the things that require money.” 

“ If the Act turns up trumps,” asked Brian, “ would you 
make the old man clear out of Setley? ” 

“ Oh, well,” said Lord Rathkeale, “ I don’t know that I 
should care to do that — in a hurry, you know. We should 
have to put our heads together and really decide , before 
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doing that. Of course, if you had all made up your minds, 
I might do so.” 

And they continued to chatter about dear Setley. 

It was not that they ignored the visitor: it was that they 
made him so completely one of themselves. They took him 
into their confidence at once, because apparently they were 
incapable of keeping anybody at a distance by the use of 
politely conventional manner and talk. Anybody admitted 
to the family circle must be all right — the rough material 
of a friend, if not the recognized, finished article. But the 
welcome to a rapid and unexpected intimacy was extraor- 
dinarily gratifying to Mr. Barnard. It flattered his self- 
esteem; it satisfied deep-seated, unexamined cravings; it 
warmed, it lulled, it soothed; and yet he was all the time 
shrewdly aware of the characteristic fact that Lord Rathkeale 
himself — not the others — would have invited the post- 
man to dinner if he thought the postman would prove amus- 
ing. 

Barnard tried to amuse his lordship after dinner, and 
again upstairs in the drawing-room resolutely set himself 
to pay for his entertainment by making himself agreeable, 
instructive, or stimulating. If he failed, they might not ask 
him again ; and he was desperately anxious not to fail. 

Towards the end of the evening he sat upon a sofa by the 
side of Lady Edith. She was showing him photographs — 
snap-shots of meet of hounds at Setley, of herself on horse- 
back, of her sisters in a pony-cart, and so on; the heavy 
album lay on her knees and on his ; their arms touched as she 
leaned forward to turn back a leaf; and for a few moments 
he felt deprived of all physical sensation. It was as if she 
had an atmosphere of glamour and mystery into which he 
had suddenly entered; as if she had wrapped him round 
with a seductiveness no less enervating than it was irre- 
sistible; as if from the surface warmth of her body, the 

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faint perfume of her hair, there came an atonic fusillade, an 
impalpable bombardment of atoms, which was penetrating 
his brain, beating out thought, numbing feeling, obliterating 
consciousness. 

The vacant pause was over ; she was showing him another 
photograph, speaking to him ; and he felt and thought again. 
He was a king — an oriental potentate enthroned in glory, 
the court about him, the empress at his side. 

“That’s somewhere abroad, isn’t it?” he asked, pointing 
to a picture. 

“ Yes,” she said. “ Mentone.” 

“ Dear Mentone,” said Lady Agatha, peering over some 
ridiculous wool-work at a small table. 

“ I like Mentone,” said Lady Rathkeale, comfortably 
knitting by the fire. “ But I did not like that Hotel Splen- 
dide. There was no view — and the food was both bad 
and inadequate.” 

“ The worst of Mentone is this,” said Lord Rathkeale, 
standing on the hearth-rug. “ It’s too near Monte Carlo — 
the loadstone rock, eh? One couldn’t keep away from the 
roulette,” and he bent his knees and rattled his money in his 
pockets. 

“You were too foolish,” said Lady Rathkeale stolidly. 

John Barnard looked round the old-fashioned room, tak- 
ing his swift habitual survey of external objects, and per- 
haps for the last time seeing these people and things just as 
they really were. 

Crystal chandeliers, with dropping beads that glittered; 
dark canvases in paneled frames ; chairs with faded brocade ; 
tints of dull cream and rose in the hearth-rug, and brown 
depths like stagnant water in the polished parquet floor — 
and the gray old man, balancing himself on his thin shanks, 
was smiling, while his foolish, weak face shone beneath the 
candle light; the mother, who had obviously over-eaten her- 
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self, was becoming somnolently stupid as she prodded aim- 
lessly with her big wooden needles; the queer old sister, 
with dim eyes lowered to the colored wool, was chuckling 
in an almost imbecile way ; the boy and the young sister were 
staring at him with frank, kind, honest, but rather sleepy 
eyes. 

Time to withdraw — he must not outstay his welcome. 
He turned to look at the girl on the sofa by his side; and 
then, immediately, the room and all the other people were 
gone, had fallen into meaningless, indistinguishable dull- 
ness of outline, color, and shape — so that never again could 
he see them as they were. The empty zone of thought had 
made its counterpart in the sphere of sensory impressions; 
Lady Edith had isolated herself from material surround- 
ings ; when he came to the house again, he would see her and 
nothing else. 


VIII 


He was a changed man. Measuring the extent of the 
change, he felt almost appalled. The business of his life 
seemed trivial and uninteresting; his career seemed of no 
real consequence; his capacity for any work demanding at- 
tention had altogether deserted him. He noticed the sur- 
prise of clerks and secretaries when they came into his room 
at the office of the rubber companies and found their ener- 
getic managing-director idle — nibbling a quill pen, staring 
at the fire, doing nothing instead of doing everything. He 
was ashamed of himself and angry with them : he snapped at 
them, rebuked without cause, complained without reason. 
And the male clerks went out to swear, and the female 
clerks to weep, because of the change in him. 

He struggled to pull himself together, fought against an 
infatuation which threatened to overthrow all the solid pur- 
poses of his existence. Could it be possible that he, of all 
men, should be doomed to make such a consummate ass of 
himself? To feel like this — knocked out of time, pros- 
trate and unable to get up again — just because a girl had 
a straight nose, a lot of dark hair, and a proud bearing! 
It was monstrous and absurd. Merciful powers, how many 
girls, with hair as dark and with just as much of it, were 
now walking about London, and all of them ready to jump 
at the chance of getting him? If this one did not want him, 
she could go without him. He could go without her. 

Could he? He used to tramp for miles through the 
streets, as if in search of another one who would do as well. 
He used to get over-heated, and turn into the Bath Club 
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and swim; then walk again and get cold, and come into 
the Reform Club to warm himself, to smoke furiously, or to 
look at illustrated newspapers and grimly study the faces 
of the sort of men who would win her for a wife. “ Fash- 
ionable weddings: The Marquis of Beaumanoir and the 
Lady Hermione St. Just ” — there, that would be the nar- 
row-browed, simpering kind of fool who could confidently 
aspire to her hand. Late of the Royal Horse Guards, 
Honorary Grand Equerry — something decked out in scar- 
let and gold, with the arrogance of a pope and the intel- 
ligence of a stable boy — such a bedizened booby would 
take her with a careless condescension, as of right, if he 
happened to want her. But no hope for plain John Bar- 
nard — not the faintest glimmer of hope that his rugged 
features and heavy frame could draw the eyes and fire the 
heart of his cold and proud princess. 

Once, when he had called in Albemarle Street and been 
sent away from the stately, forbidding door, he saw her 
driving with her mother. The carriage looked grand in 
an old-fashioned style, high-swung, dingily magnificent, 
royal; and she, pale, silent, beautiful, wrapped with fur, 
looked like the emperor’s daughter in a fairy tale. She 
did not notice him among other common people on the 
crowded pavement; when he put on his hat after the fruit- 
less bow, the hat seemed enormous, an extinguishing cap 
that came down over his head and shoulders to cover his 
worthlessness and insignificance. Walking away, he felt a 
shabby, diminutive creature in his proper place, the gutter: 
some wretched little Aladdin, suffering the torment of a 
vain-glorious dream. Aladdin — without a lamp — in- 
sanely dreaming of the emperor’s daughter ! 

He had never troubled about the usages of the polite 
world; any knowledge of society that he possessed had been 
picked up at clubs, the House of Commons, big political 

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dinner-parties, and receptions; but he worried himself now 
as to the etiquette of calling, card-leaving, and so forth, 
and was fearful of committing solecisms. It seemed the 
proper thing to pay a visit after being asked to dinner — 
in fact, he could not keep away from Lord Rathkeale’s old- 
fashioned mansion. When he called and was refused ad- 
mittance, he would not leave his cards. If he had done 
wrong, perhaps the butler would not report the enormity. 
But he went off crestfallen, perturbed, in depths of dejec- 
tion. This butler and footman, and, indeed, the whole 
house, seemed to be saying to him, “ Are you mad ? Do 
you dare to raise your eyes so high ? ” 

Certainly neither Lord nor Lady Rathkeale was aware of 
his perturbations. They liked him, and without suspicion 
encouraged him to his undoing. He dined with them 
twice, thrice; and the host said he must come again, and 
meet the scientific Roscrea. But the friendly, informal din- 
ners passed as rapid shadowy feasts in dreamland. Host, 
hostess, and the rest were shadows, moving fitfully upon a 
dark background. Only one person was seated in brilliant 
light — and she and her charmed luminous circle were 
receding from him farther and farther. He longed for 
each of these evenings, but each made him more wretched. 
No hope! 

He thought of her by day and by night. She had come 
between him and his work, his food, his sleep. With her 
or away from her, he saw her now always — isolated, 
splendid, unattainable. The picture that was stamped in 
his brain could project itself into the glowing coals of the 
red fire, the darkness beyond street lamps, or the inter- 
stellar space of the night sky. The delicate profile, the 
narrowing oval of the face, the lips that he might never kiss, 
gladdened and tormented him in feverish sleep, gave him 
pleasure and pain throughout each waking hour. 

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Then slowly out of all this excitement and distress there 
grew up a sort of hopeless determination. Nothing else 
matters. This is the one great enterprise of his life. If 
he fails in this, he will be bankrupt for ever. 

But his diffidence was enormous. There seemed no pos- 
sible means of bridging the distance that separated them, 
or even bringing her to understand the measureless extent 
of his desire. He dreaded the hour when she should guess 
his presumption; and yet, until then, he would not have 
made one forward step. He did not dare to woo her 
openly, and he did not know how to woo her insidiously. 
He would have wished to buy presents for her — like 
Aladdin with his princess, to send a panier of precious 
stones. Passing the shop-windows, he looked greedily at 
diamond tiaras, emerald necklaces, ropes of pearls. Then 
an inspiration came. Instead of courting her, he could 
court the family. He might not give her jewels, but he 
might give flowers to her mamma. He despatched a huge 
basket of the most expensive and unseasonable blossoms 
that he could procure; and then began to suffer agonies of 
apprehension lest Lady Rathkeale should be offended by 
the unexpected offering. Why should she be offended ? He 
did not know — there had been an upheaval in all his fixed 
ideas; new standards of values upset all his calculations; he 
was drifting on an eddying stream of doubt and perplexity. 

“ How extremely kind of you,” wrote Lady Rathkeale — 
not huffed, but underlining words to express her gratifica- 
tion at a pretty little attention from a bachelor guest. His 
forehead was damp with perspiration, he felt a dead 
weight lifted, as he read her ladyship’s note. Encouraged 
by this success, he advanced more boldly in his vicarious 
courtship. He courted Mr. Brian assiduously, and that 
young gentleman was good enough to dine with him at 

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the Reform Club on two occasions. Somebody having men- 
tioned the Drury Lane pantomime, he engaged the Royal 
box; and the Lady Geraldine, together with her brother 
and sisters, graciously consented to occupy it. Lady 
Agatha, on the eve of her departure for the Engadine, 
evinced some slight curiosity about the Temple; and, quick 
to seize a chance, he organized a tea-party at his rooms — 
in honor of Lady Agatha. All the family, except his lord- 
ship, came eastward to eat of the plethora of dainty cakes 
and hot-house fruits that he had provided ; and Lady Rath- 
keale, doing ample justice to these delicacies, complimented 
him on his confectioner and fruiterer. 

By the aid of such and further civilities, he seemed to 
be progressing rapidly in the good graces of the family — 
aijid to be standing exactly in the same place with regard 
to Lady Edith. They treated him now as an old and trusted 
friend ; she treated him as a clever, not uninteresting 
stranger. Or so — in default of readable signs of hope — 
it seemed to him. 

One night, towards the end of February, as he dressed 
for dinner, he was in a lower depth of despair than he had 
yet touched. He had been invited to Albemarle Street 
to meet Lord and Lady Roscrea, and had counted the days 
till now; but, as he clumsily tied his white tie, he asked 
himself what was the good of going. To sit in the same 
room with her, and feel that she was thousands, millions of 
miles away? To suffer ever-increasing torment, which she 
caused but would never — could never cure ? 

He stood before the glass, with hanging arms and frown- 
ing brows, and, perhaps for the first time in his life, studied 
his appearance. The glass showed him a heavy, loutish 
fellow, whose hair was coarse and stiff, whose hands were 
big and red, whose clothes were unfashionable, badly made, 
unworthy ; and he thought, in bitterness of spirit, of smooth- 

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faced, slim-waisted, bloodish fops whose butterfly ties, white 
waistcoats, jeweled studs and buttons, would bring a decora- 
tive grace to the dinner table. She would be quick to 
interpret their thoughts of love; she would anticipate 
them as natural, and welcome or reject them, but not scorn 
them. 

But he, poor wretch, belonged to another world. He 
had the House of Commons look — as if he ought not to be 
in evening clothes at all — the sort of man who would 
never appear decently presentable until you put him in 
the gold and blue of a privy councilor’s coat. How could 
she be supposed to entertain any feeling kinder than indiffer- 
ence for such an absurd suitor ? 

Yet such ideas were all new, all strange to him. Hith- 
erto he had relied solely on himself, without the most tran- 
sient yearnings for adventitious aid. His intercourse with 
women had been slight in its character and restricted in its 
scope: as he said himself, he had been too busy to bother 
about women. Yet it had happened more than once that 
the convenient love which is usually bought and sold had 
been offered to him as a free gift. Instinct had told him 
again and again that he was a man whom many married 
women would be willing to choose for a secret lover ; 
young girls had smiled at him on a first encounter; grad- 
ually there had come to him a full confidence that if ever he 
wanted to win love, he would surely win it. Now, think- 
ing of himself and his imagined power of attraction, he 
felt nothing but a sick disgust, an angry contempt. 

Nearly all the evening in Albemarle Street passed for 
him as a troubled dream. At dinner he tried to talk freely 
and intelligently, but failed, as he thought, in a miserable 
fashion. Lady Roscrea, a blonde, nondescript person sit- 
ting by his side, asked him questions about denominational 
education, the new Irish Land Bill, the swing of the polit- 

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ical pendulum; and he was utterly at a loss to reply with 
useful information or shrewd conjecture. 

Lord Roscrea, a serious, spectacled man who looked 
nearly as old as his father, asked him questions about the 
various chemical processes employed in the preparation of 
rubber; and he was tongue-tied, afraid of boring the others 
if he gave exhaustive answers, afraid of seeming churlish 
to his interrogator if he attempted to turn the conversa- 
tion to a less technical subject. He found his words trail- 
ing off into a feeble stammer; and he paused abruptly, with 
his mouth open, and a hot prickling sensation rising from 
his neck to the crown of his head. 

“ What I ask myself,” said Lord Rathkeale, “ is, Who 
uses rubber — who wants it? Yet our friend here tells 
us the industry is more than remunerative.” 

“ Oh, rubber,” said Lord Roscrea, very seriously, “ forms 
a component part nowadays of almost every manufactured 
article.” 

“ Tell us, Barnard,” said old Rathkeale, “ what do you 
sell your rubber for ? Pencil erasers ? ” 

“ And baths,” said Lady Rathkeale. “ I wonder if 
Agatha took that portable bath to St. Moritz.” 

Then for a little while Mr. Barnard was relieved of any 
necessity to talk. The family made a sort of conversational 
game for themselves, and played it merrily. 

“ Have you forgotten the tires of motor-cars and car- 
riages? ” asked Lord Roscrea. 

“ Upon my word, I had,” said his father. “ Of course 
they are all rubber.” 

“ And door-mats,” said Lady Geraldine.” 

“What about water-proof coats? ” said Mr. Brian. 

And each member of the family supplied the name of a 
useful article containing india rubber. 

“Waders!” 


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“ Tobacco pouches! ” 

“And those paving blocks! That they put down in the 
courtyard of hotels to deaden the noise.” 

“ And — and — ” 

“ Now that I think of it,” said Lady Rathkeale, “ of 
course the rubber department of the stores is one of the 
largest in the building.” 

Lady Edith made no contribution to this talking game. 
Barnard, stealing furtive glances at her across the table, 
thought that she was more than usually pale and silent and 
thoughtful — and, if possible, more destructively beautiful. 
She was in black, with some sort of silver lace and fringes 
about her bodice, and the subdued light made her dark hair 
an indistinct mass of shadow that almost blended with the 
deeper shadow behind her chair. She looked like a portrait 
by Vandyke; and, as always, Barnard experienced the 
utmost difficulty in refraining from the stare of admira- 
tion which is proper when you examine a picture, but 
which is not permissible when you are regarding a live 
young lady. 

Once, while the others chattered, he unexpectedly met 
her eyes. When he looked at her, she was looking at him 
— very thoughtfully, as it seemed, and with vague inquiry. 
His confusion and distress were immediately enhanced. 
Finding words to express the thought behind the questioning 
glance, he guessed that she was asking herself, “Is it pos- 
sible that a man can be so glum and stupid, when all the 
laws of polite society call upon him to be sprightly and 
musing? ” 

He felt the blood throbbing at his temples; he felt his 
heart beating heavily and dolorously against his ribs, the 
whole surface of his skin tickling and burning him. Truly, 
she had reduced him to a pitiable state. With a supreme 
effort he turned to Lady Roscrea, and started a huskily ener- 
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getic anecdote about the prime minister and a labor mem- 
ber. 

Towards the end of the meal he was again relieved — 
this time by a characteristic family debate. Suddenly they 
all began talking about their cousin Cyril, and it became 
obvious that this fascinating, delightful, but unsuccessful 
personage was a cause for perennial discussion only second 
in importance to the Irish estate and the tenancy of Setley 
Court. 

“ There’s a fellow,” said the host, giving the guest hur- 
ried aid in grasping the main thread of the debate, “ there’s 
a fellow who has deserved well of his country — and who 
has got more kicks than half-pence as his reward.” 

“Yes,” said Lord Roscrea solemnly, “I always say that 
Cyril Stewart was shabbily treated by the authorities.” 

“ Cyril, you know,” said Lady Geraldine, “ had a grand 
position, and he gave it up to go to the war.” 

“ He had just been appointed as a land agent,” explained 
Lady Edith. 

“ To one of those rich men,” said Lord Rathkeale, “ who 
don’t know how to behave, and who won’t learn. He 
hadn’t the decency to keep the billet open while poor Cyril ' 
was fighting for his country. Put in another fellow — ” 

“ Beastly outsider,” said Brian. “ Cyril did jolly well 
out there.” 

“ He nearly won a V. C.,” said Geraldine, enthusias- 
tically. 

“ Well, I am not so sure about that,” said her spectacled 
elder brother. “ I fancy there was a certain amount of 
exaggeration in those first reports. You see, he’d have 
been given it, if he’d really earned it — they gave too 
many crosses rather than too few. But Cyril did very 
well—” 

“ And the fact remains,” said old Rathkeale, “ that on his 

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return he found himself stranded, and has been at a loose 
end ever since.” 

Then, having sufficiently enlightened the outsider, they 
threw themselves unreservedly into the family debate. 

The charm of Cyril, the companionable qualities of Cyril, 
the easy-going good nature of Cyril — these were points upon 
which all were agreed. 

“ Do you remember,” said Lady Rathkeale, “ the trouble 
he took that year at Setley, when the water was so low and 
we thought all the fish would die ? ” 

“ A fellow who could turn his hands to anything,” said 
her husband. 

And then there arose slight differences of opinion, but 
only just sufficient to make the debate more intensely ab- 
sorbing to the family. 

“Yes,” said Lord Roscrea, “he ought to find some open- 
ing, because really his abilities are of no mean order. But 
the question is, does he really try? ” 

“ I am sure,” said Brian, “ that Cyril wouldn’t shirk 
work, if only he could get something suitable.” 

“ But anything ought to suit him,” said Roscrea. “ He 
should not forget the adage that beggars mustn’t be choos- 
ers.” 

“ What,” asked old Rathkeale, “ do you suppose Cyril 
has a year — all told ? ” 

“ I should say, toughly, five hundred a year — not a penny 
more ; ” and with gusto father and son went into rapid 
estimates based on well-known family facts. So much from 
Cyril’s mother, Lady Evelyn; so much from his uncle, the 
admiral — no, poor Cyril at the best can’t count on more 
than a bare five hundred. 

“ It’s wonderful how he rubs along on it — in the world 
he frequents.” 

“Men tell me they meet him everywhere — Egypt, 

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Cannes — playing cards, pigeon-shooting — everything. 
And last year, he was hunting with the Belvoir ! ” 

“ How on earth does he do it? ” 

“ I am inclined to agree with Roscrea,” said Lady Rath- 
keale placidly. “ I doubt if he tries to earn money. I 
fear that Cyril is naturally indolent.” 

“Yes,” said Lady Edith, sadly. “ I suppose Cyril never 
really sacrifices his own inclinations.” 

“ But that is wrong,” said Lady Roscrea, sententiously. 
“ We are all of us the better — and the stronger — for 
some self-denial. If it happens that one does not possess 
wide means, one should not indulge expensive tastes.” 

“ Yes,” said Lady Edith, again sadly. “ That’s one of 
Cyril’s misfortunes — he cannot economize — even in quite 
small things.” 

Barnard was watching her face. It was as if the Van- 
dyke picture had come to life. As she leaned forward, 
talking now with interest and sympathy, the candle-light 
fell upon her arms and clasped hands, and threw the shadow 
of her hair downward to meet the faint color that had come 
into her cheeks. From the dusky shadow her eyes were 
shining with star-like splendor. 

It seemed to him that this family were tied together and 
shut off from the rest of the community by their extraordi- 
nary and inappeasible interest in themselves. To them the 
blood-bond meant everything. Because this far-off cousin 
was one of themselves, he had power to rouse the coldest 
of them into animation and excitement merely at the sound 
of his name. 

“ I’ll tell you what,” said Lord Rathkeale cheerfully. 
“ Barnard must look out for something for Cyril.” 

“ If ever an opportunity occurred,” said the guest, “ I’d 
be too happy.” 

“You’d have all our gratitude, if you could,” said the 

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host, earnestly. “If you want a director for one of your 
companies — an ornamental figure-head, don’t you know 
— or as secretary to any flourishing concern in the city — 
well, he’s just your man. Charming manner — but we 
must get him here to meet you, and you’ll see for 
yourself.” 

When the ladies left the dining-room, Barnard con- 
trived to get to the door before Mr. Brian. As Lady 
Edith passed out, he encountered her eyes once more; and 
again he fancied that he saw in them some vague question. 
What was it? Then he discovered that in his haste to 
open the door, and snatch from her young brother the per- 
formance of a duty that properly belonged to a son of the 
house, he had brought his napkin with him. He had stood 
by the open door, napkin in hand, looking exactly like a 
hired waiter; and the unspoken inquiry of his princess had 
been, “ Why is this abject clown permitted to intrude in our 
royal circle ? ” 

He returned to the table, with his napkin, feeling desolate 
and scorned. 

“ That’s right. Sit ye down,” said Lord Rathkeale care- 
lessly. “What are you drinking?” and he turned to Ros- 
crea, to take up the debate with undiminished ardor. “ Be- 
tween you and me, what I didn’t care to say just now is this: 
Cyril has been spoilt by people being too nice to him — 
above all, too much good fortune with the fair sex.” 

“ I know — I know,” said Roscrea, gravely nodding his 
head. “ It was in my mind, also.” 

“The women make fools of themselves about Cyril — 
that’s it. Fellows tell me the women can’t resist him. 
Husbands dread the sight of him ; ” and his lordship 
chuckled, as if there was something highly diverting in the 
idea of domestic peace disturbed by the too fascinating 
cousin. “If all I hear is true,” he continued, “ Cyril goes 

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about the world leaving a trail of extremely handsome vic- 
tims behind him. . . . Now, I’m not for a moment 

hinting that Cyril takes money from ’em — God forbid.” 

“ Oh, no,” said Roscrea. “ Cyril is honorable — at any 
rate, in money matters.” 

“ But why don’t he turn his good looks to account, and 
marry for money? ” 

“ I told Cyril,” said Roscrea, with the utmost solemnity, 
“ as long as six years ago, that he ought to look about him 
and make a rich marriage. I advised him to hunt among 
the widows.” 

“You couldn’t have given him better advice,” and Lord 
Rathkeale turned round to the guest. “ I take it, a reputa- 
tion for gallantry — in the field and in the boudoir — don’t 
go against a fellow among you city magnates, eh? If you 
can ever find anything for Cyril, upon my word we shall be 
very much obliged to you. Keep him on your mental 
notes, will you? ” 

But Mr. Barnard was submerged in his gloomy broodings. 
He started when thus directly addressed, and answered 
stupidly and at random. 

“ Just so,” said Lord Rathkeale. “ Very good then — 
if you won’t have a glass of port, let’s go upstairs.” 

In the drawing-room the ladies were comfortably estab- 
lished — Lady Rathkeale knitting by the fireside, her 
daughter-in-law and Lady Edith side by side on a sofa, 
and the youthful Geraldine on a stool at their feet. They 
were all engrossed by Lady Roscrea’s thrilling account of 
the wicked conduct of an under-nurse; evidently they could 
do very well without the society of the men. Lord Roscrea 
drew Mr. Barnard into a remote corner of the room, and 
for nearly an hour enjoyed the uninterrupted sound of his 
own voice. He was describing a remarkable series of chem- 
ical experiments that he had recently carried to a semi-suc- 
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cessful issue, and the glum silence of his companion seemed 
altogether to content him. 

Lord Rathkeale had taken his favorite position on the 
hearth-rug; and he stood with his hands in his pockets, 
warming his thin back, balancing himself on his rickety legs, 
and benevolently beaming upon the assemblage. Presently, 
while Lady Roscrea still held forth about her nursery 
crimes, he stooped to whisper confidentially to his wife. 

“What is the matter with Barnard? He is growing 
very dull.’ , 

“ Perhaps,” said Lady Rathkeale, stolidly knitting, “ he 
has something on his mind — his companies may all be going 
smash.” 

“ Oh, I hope not.” 

“ One never knows,” said Lady Rathkeale, stopping her 
needles, and looking with a kindly solicitude at the distant 
guest. “ He is the most attentive, generous creature, but I 
agree with you : he has certainly lost what I called his mag- 
netism.” 

“ I shan’t ask him again — at least for a bit. People 
who won’t utter always depress me. Why I took to him, 
was because he seemed so cheery.” 

“ Yes. Magnetic.” 

At last the evening was coming to an end. The host had 
been frankly and conspicuously yawning for a quarter of an 
hour. Lady Roscrea rose from the sofa, and beckoned to 
her husband : the place beside Lady Edith was vacant. 

Barnard came slowly forward; and, as he drew nearer 
to the sofa, he again saw himself in a looking-glass — side 
view, in the big glass above a table, of a heavy man with 
his mouth open, moving clumsily, and showing red, ungainly 
hands. Abruptly he turned, picked up one of the albums 
of snap-shots, and, with his back to the room, pretended to 
be amused by the contents of the volume. 

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“Are you looking at my old photographs? There’s 
nothing new there.” 

It was the voice of Lady Edith, sweet and low, close to 
him, making his heart beat fast. She had come over to 
him — doubtless in polite pity for a gauche and neglected 
guest. 

“ I am expecting some new ones to-morrow, that I think 
will be rather good — if they are developed properly. 
Would you care to see them? ” 

“ Yes — very much.” 

“ Then come to-morrow afternoon,” and her eyes met 
his. 

“ Yes.” 

His heart, after those hurried beats, seemed to have 
ceased working; his face felt cold; and then a warm suffo- 
cating glow for a moment or two impeded his breath. 
Something wonderful was coming from her: not politeness 
or pity, but a message of hope. 

“ I shall be in from four o’clock — though I may be alone. 
Mother and Geraldine are going to a concert.” 

Her eyes were on his face, and he still read in them 
interrogation — some question free from contempt or dis- 
taste, some question full of infinite kindness. Finding 
words for it now, he felt his heart begin to beat again, 
driven tumultuously by this glorious thought. She was 
telling him he might hope. It was as if she had said to him, 
“ Cannot you think of me as you used to think of other 
girls? Cannot you see that, though I seem different, I am 
essentially the same? ” 

“ Good night, Lucy dear.” She was kissing Lady Ros- 
crea; and he stood alone again, with the album open in his 
trembling hands. 

He had come to the house heavily, slowly; and he went 
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away from the house lightly, swiftly, carrying with him 
hope — perhaps insane, yet rapturous hope. 

Was it true, or was it some horrible self-deception that 
would ultimately destroy him, by casting him from her 
presence into outer darkness? Walking with light foot- 
steps, he thought of a maxim he had once heard. A hard- 
headed man of the world, speaking about courtships, pro- 
posals, and so on, had declared that the man need not worry 
himself as to when he should speak or how he should speak, 
because the woman will decide and direct him. The man, 
unless he is a fool, need not fear a refusal: the woman will 
not allow him to propose to her until she has tacitly told him 
that he has been chosen and accepted. 

But he could not sleep, and he could not control his 
heart-beats. They were fast or slow, never sedately nor- 
mal, all night and next day — till twenty-minutes past 
four p. m. 

At that time he was again in Albemarle Street. He and 
Lady Edith were alone in the room, sitting side by side 
upon the sofa, with the biggest of the scrap-books spread across 
their knees. 

The book fell with a crash when he put his arms about 
her and drew her unresisting lips to his. And with the 
fall of the book, it was as if stone walls fell, too — as if, 
with a kiss, he had broken down impenetrable barriers, and 
opened for himself a flood of overwhelming joy. 

It was all simple. She had liked him from the first; 
she had liked him more and more; and now she liked him 
very much indeed. 

The glamour and the mystery were gone — swept away, 
as shadows by a flaming lamp. His princess had van- 
ished for ever. He was straining to his breast some one 
inconceivably different: a warm-blooded, candid, kind 
young woman, who, as she gently yielded to his embrace, 

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raised an expert hand and prevented a tortoise-shell comb 
from dropping out of her back hair. But in exchange for 
dream-like fancies, he had the glorious fact. The one girl 
in all the world for whom he had passionately longed would 
consent — had consented — to be his wife. 


IX 


There was no real change in him. He felt himself — 
no, more than himself. Everything that had been taken 
from him had been given back to him, with increase. His 
heart-beats were under his control again. He was master 
of himself, of the whole revolving globe ; he was lord of the 
unplumbed universe. He thought of the saying that suc- 
cess is the wine of life. Never before had he tasted of such 
a magnificent vintage as this. It was Imperial Tokay com- 
pared with a thin, cheap claret. 

Talking to Lord Rathkeale, he stood firm and square; 
his voice was cheery as ever; he looked supremely self-con- 
fident. Whereas Lord Rathkeale shuffled his feet, feebly 
stroked his bald head, spoke with hesitation, and seemed 
stupidly embarrassed and confused. 

“You have not thought of Agatha,” his lordship was 
saying. 

“ No,” said Barnard, smiling happily. “ I have only 
thought of Lady Edith.” 

“ Agatha would make a perfect wife. She is a saint. 
. . . You know,” added Lord Rathkeale, with plaintive 

reproachfulness, “ you have so completely surprised — and 
upset me — that, upon my word, I don’t know what I am 
saying.” 

This was in my lord’s own room, a dismal library behind 
the hall. Mr. Barnard, calling at mid-day, and demanding 
a private interview, had at once plainly stated his wish to 
make the owner of the room his father-in-law. 

“You know — the fact is, Barnard, it’s all very well 

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our talking over it in this way, but there’s Edith herself 
to be thought of. You must go to her — and I warn you 
that there may be — probably will be — an insuperable obsta- 
cle — in her inclinations.” 

“ I have overcome that obstacle. She has honored me 
by consenting to — ” 

“What? You went to Edith before you came to me? 
Really, I don’t think that was a proper course to pursue.” 

“ But you just told me that I should have gone to her.” 

“ Yes, but not first.” 

Barnard laughed. “ First or second, what does it signify? 
I’ll go backwards and forwards between you as often as 
you like.” 

“ I must talk to my wife. Really, her mother is the 
proper person. I wish you had gone to her first of all. 
I’m sure she has no conception. - -You never even sounded 
her?” 

“ No.” 

“ Well, I don’t — upon my word, I don’t think she will 
take up the idea . . . and, between you and me, I 

don’t think Roscrea will either. You see, we’ve always 
been united. What one thinks the rest of us are pretty 
sure to think. . . . Would you mind having a chat 

with Roscrea?” 

“Not in the least. But of course I cannot attach the 
same value to a brother’s consent as to a — ” 

“Just so,” interrupted Lord Rathkeale. “I am the one 
who must ultimately decide. That goes without saying. 
But you know, taking me like this, without preparing me, 
you place me in an uncommonly difficult position. There 
are considerations to be put forward which may wound 
susceptibilities. One has to pick one’s words — and per- 
haps the right words don’t come.” 

And then, with embarrassment, his lordship hinted that 

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perhaps, in the view of the family collectively and individ- 
ually, John Barnard M. P. might not be quite as fine a 
match as could be expected — not unreasonably expected — 
for a young and charming daughter. 

“ That goes without saying, too,” said Barnard, genially 
and yet resolutely. “You mean I’m not good enough for 
her. But I know that ; I feel it through and through.” 

“ You do see that one has to consider? ” 

“I am not worthy to black her shoes — if she ever 
wears anything but patent leather. I am a common rough 
sort of a chap — no family — no rank — no personal graces ; 
but I am straight. I’ll work for her. And I won’t give her 
ten years with twenty thousand a year, and then twenty 
years without a penny — and a husband doing penal servi- 
tude.” 

“ Ah. There you touch on another question to be 
thought of — thought of seriously. The question of ways 
and means! You know, we are not rich people. We 
couldn’t, in any event, provide funds — you know, marriage 
portions — something beyond a mere dress-allowance — for 
our daughters.” 

Barnard laughed gayly. 

“Ways and means! That’s my affair. I want your 
daughter, not your money. Let her come to me in the 
clothes she stands up in. That’s what I would prefer.” 

“ That, of course, is very handsomely said. But then 
again, though we are not rich, my girls are accustomed to 
a certain manner of life, don’t you know.” 

“ Well,” said Barnard, “ it is only a matter of time, and 
she shall have everything — a London house as big as this 
— a house in the country — all the things to which she is 
used. If I keep her waiting for them, it shan’t be a min- 
ute longer than I can help. I shall be working, working 
on, to pile up capital to give us a solid income.” 

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“ You mentioned an income of twenty thousand. 
Frankly, you know, I call that more than ample.” 

“Yes, but I wasn’t speaking of myself then. I was 
thinking of men who go in for speculative finance — swell 
out large, and promptly burst.” 

“But tell me — that is, if you don’t object — and quite 
apart from this idea, which really I don’t think can come to 
anything — tell me what are you making, and how much 
have you put by — or piled up? ” 

“ I am earning between three or four thousand a year, 
and I am worth about eighteen thousand pounds,” 

Something of the honest pride of a self-made man sounded 
in his tone as Barnard uttered the statement. 

“ But, God bless me, is that all ? " said Lord Rath- 
keale. 

He was astounded not by the magnitude, but the meager- 
ness of Mr. Barnard’s achievements. Indeed, he was so 
greatly staggered that for a little while he quite lost sight 
of the starting cause of the discussion. 

“ Well, but surely,” he asked, “ aren’t immense fortunes 
amassed by this company-promoting? I thought that was 
the whole notion. Look at these fellows one reads about 
in the papers — this fellow, what’s his name — O’Donnel. 
You know the sort of man I mean — worth millions.” 

Then the suitor further explained his circumstances. He 
was only beginning to build a fortune, but he had laid firm 
foundations. In this matter of money-making, he re- 
minded Lord Rathkeale, the first stages are admittedly the 
most difficult. 

“ Ah, then you do mean to wind up a millionaire one day, 
I suppose.” 

But here again Mr. Barnard was compelled to disappoint 
him. He proposed to stop far short of a million. A 
fourth part of that sum would satisfy his needs; and he 
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wanted to earn so much, or so little, in the shortest possible 
time. As soon as he had attained the end, he would devote 
himself to politics; and once more, among new men and 
new surroundings, he would push right through to the 
front. 

“ I promise you,” he said, with conviction, “ that Edith 
shan’t be ashamed of me; if she gives me time to work out 
the career that lies before me.” 

“ Really,” said Lord Rathkeale, “ you must not speak of 
her as Edith — don’t you know, as if implying that your 
right to do so had been in any way countenanced. No — 
honestly, I am afraid you mustn’t think of that idea any 
more.” 

“ But I can assure you, I shall never think of anything 
else.” 

“ Then — I can’t go on talking with you. . . . Any- 

how, drop it for the moment. Tell me more about your- 
self — all this work and the rest of it. Very interesting.” 

Not unwillingly perhaps, the suitor gave still further 
details of his past history. 

“ I don’t as a rule talk much about myself,” he said, in 
conclusion. “ My creed is, Work — with a shut mouth. 
But, you see, if I am egotistical, it’s not unnatural — be- 
cause, as I tell you, I have done everything for myself. I 
don’t want to brag — ” 

“ Not at all,” said Lord Rathkeale, cordially. “ I asked 
j'ou to — it’s intensely interesting.” 

He lounged comfortably in his armchair, and beamed 
good-humoredly. His time was of no value; he could 
thoroughly enjoy the conversation, so long as it led nowhere 
in particular. It was only when he felt the direct attack 
and resolute intention of the words, that he became uneasy 
and flustered. 

“ Then, now you see,” said Barnard, " exactly what I am 

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bragging about, and why. I deserved credit at the first, 
because I was creating something out of nothing — at least, 
I was like a man forced to produce bricks without straw, 
or to cook omelettes with insufficient eggs. But please 
believe me that the battle is over. I really have won it. 
Your daughter will never see me fighting for my life again.” 

“ Oh, don’t bring her into it ; ” and Lord Rathkeale 
moved uneasily on his leather cushions. “ Don’t go on with 
all that.” 

But the suitor would go on, and the father was com- 
pelled to assume the authoritative air of a parent and 
guardian driven into a corner. 

“ My dear fellow, dismiss it from your mind. Not to be 
thought of ! I put it to you — go to any parent of an 
attractive girl like Edith — brought up as Edith has been 
brought up — with certain advantages — well, of birth, and 
so on — and tell him that you can only offer a settlement 
of — what was it? Eighteen thousand, eh?” 

“ No,” said Barnard firmly. “ I never offered to settle 
anything. The eighteen thousand is my working capital. 
So how could I tie it up ? ” 

“ Then you’ve nothing to settle? ” 

“Not as yet. But I shall have plenty — and directly I 
have it, I will settle it.” 

“Nothing to settle — absolutely nothing,” and Lord 
Rathkeale showed that he was getting rather angry, as well 
as discomposed. “ Really, it’s too absurd — people can’t live 
on love — or mutual affection — and esteem.” 

“ I promise not to starve her — ” 

“ Of course,” said Lord Rathkeale, with a return of 
friendliness. “ I respect you, my dear fellow, for the work, 
and all that — as you described it just now. But you have 
surprised me. I always considered you a sort of Croesus. 
Not that I ever considered your means in this connection. 

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“ Moreover,” he added, in a still kindlier tone, when he 
had risen from the armchair and was dismissing the suitor ; 
“ well, I’ll go as far as to say this: If it had been Agatha 
one might have entertained the idea. But Edith — no. 
Agatha is a saint-like girl — or woman — for she is no 
longer a child; and she would have resigned herself to 
straightened circumstances, and necessary privations.” 

“ But Edith will not be called upon to suffer privations 
or — ” 

“ My dear fellow — frankly — I must forbid your speak- 
ing of her by her Christian name. . . . The thing is 

not to be thought of. That is my last word.” 

John Barnard went through the once formidable hall 
door cheerfully and happily. He had no fear. Not Lord 
Rathkeale, not a hundred bald-pated, time-wasting and 
decrepit noblemen, should come between him and his 
love. 

He laughed and snapped his fingers joyously as he hur- 
ried away to the company offices and his long neglected 
w r ork. He was thinking of his early matrimonial ambi- 
tion. Fate had indeed been kind in granting him the maiden 
of his desires, and throwing “ the lady of quality ” into the 
bargain. 

“ I wish,” said Lord Rathkeale, plaintively, “ I hadn’t 
been to that infernal lecture last December. This fellow 
Barnard has sprung a mine upon me. He has altogether 
upset me. And you will be more upset than I am.” 

“ Is it what I guessed ? ” asked Lady Rathkeale, with 
admirable tranquillity. “ He is bankrupt, and wants to bor- 
row money? ” 

“ No, he wants to marry Edith.” 

“ Edith? You don’t say so.” 

“ I told him it was not to be thought of.” 

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“No doubt you are right. . . . Yes, I agree with 

you. Edith ought to do better than that.” 

“ But I threw out a hint that if it had been Agatha — ” 

“ Ah, yes, indeed.” 

“ However, it isn’t Agatha. He seemed obstinately de- 
termined about Edith.” 

“ I wonder if it would have been really wise — I mean, 
supposing that he himself had wanted Agatha.” 

“ Why not — if Agatha had liked the fellow? ” 

“ Well,” said Lady Rathkeale. “ During the last few 
years I have quite reconciled myself to the idea of her never 
marrying. Honestly, I doubt if the state of her health 
would justify — ” 

“ Oh, there I can’t agree with you. The doctors all say 
her health is much stronger.” 

“ Yes, but they declared that those attacks would not 
recur — and, you know, they have 

“ She’ll grow out of them eventually.” 

“ I’m sure I hope so. But Agatha is thirty-five.” 

“ Just the right age for the wife of a sensible man. With 
her sweet disposition, she’d be a wife in a thousand.” 

“ Yes,” said Lady Rathkeale. “ Agatha is the sweetest 
creature — except when under the influence of the nervous 
trouble.” 

Then Lord Rathkeale, remembering what he had really 
intended to talk about, irritably rebuked her ladyship. 

“ How absurd you are — ramming Agatha at me — poor 
soul — when I have told you it is nothing to do with Agatha. 
It is Edith.” 

“ I am sorry,” said Lady Rathkeale, meekly. “ Have 
you found out what Edith thinks? ” 

“ No, I want you to find out — to sound her at once.” 

“Yes, that will be the way. Then we shall know so 
much better where we are.” 


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“ He says that Edith has encouraged him — in fact, has 
taken up the idea strongly.” 

“ I will ask her if it is so.” 

“ If it is, I can’t understand it. I own I liked him — 
especially at first. But he never struck me as the sort of 
fellow a girl like Edith would care about.” 

“ Well, I wouldn’t be sure. If you remember, I said he 
was magnetic.” 

“ I have never found Edith an easy girl to understand,” 
said Lord Rathkeale, meditatively. “ She is more reticent 
than her brothers and sisters. You know, I used to dread 
that she’d go and fall in love with that charming but utterly 
hopeless fellow — her cousin Cyril.” 

“ Yes, I used to think that, myself.” 

“ There was some sort of tender feeling, wasn’t there? 
I mean, something more than the others felt.” 

“ Yes, she admired him — at one time — to an extent 
that made me a trifle anxious.” 

“ She did?” 

“ It was when he came back from the war and joined us 
at Mentone. If he had asked her then, I don’t think any- 
thing could have prevented it.” 

“ That would have been worse than this.” 

“ Oh, yes — quite an impossible idea.” 

“ As to this fellow — we must keep this point before us. 
He may do very well, and make a lot of money; but he 
hasn’t made it yet. He said so, quite frankly. But that is 
the point.” 

Lady Rathkeale’s distressing report, after Edith had been 
exhaustively interrogated, was to the effect that nothing but 
difficulty could be anticipated. It appears that this was a 
most extraordinary business — almost a case of love at first 
sight. That unlucky lecture was the prime cause of Edith’s 
infatuation. The man’s eloquence had produced a deep im- 
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pression, and all the rest had followed as a natural progress 
of events. 

“ What I said of his magnetism was really prophetic. 
Undoubtedly that was what she also felt. When he was 
holding forth upon the platform would of course be just 
the occasion when the magnetism would tell upon people.” 

‘‘Then what is to be done?” asked Lord Rathkeale, 
feebly. “I am averse to arguing with her — I should 
only lose my temper. You must persuade her that, what- 
ever she feels now, it really isn’t to be thought of.” 

“ I’ll try — but— ” 

“ No one would approve of it. I dread having to tell 
Roscrea and Lucy. They will both blame us for allowing 
things to go as far as they have gone. I am certain that 
Roscrea would adopt a hostile attitude.” 

“ I agree with you, I could not face Lucy with such 
news to tell. It must not be thought of.” 

But of course the thing was thought of. John Barnard 
had not been banished; the servants had received no direc- 
tions to shut the door against him ; he came to see his sweet- 
heart whenever he pleased. Thus, while my lord and my 
lady were saying that it could never be, John and Edith had 
decided when it was to be, and where they would reside 
afterwards. 

Indeed, Edith’s family were incapable of effective oppo- 
sition. Her father and her other near relatives were Irish, 
haphazard, constitutionally amiable people, for whom life 
was only a pleasant game — played merely for amusement, 
and never for high stakes. 

The question of the possibility of such a marriage became 
a subject for endless and thoroughly enjoyable family de- 
bates. The engagement was always spoken of as an idea. 
You have heard of this idea that Edith has taken up; If 
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Edith persists in her idea; Do you think Edith shows any 
signs of dropping the idea? — and so on. In debate, full 
license and an attentive hearing were given to all orators. 
“ Stop,” Lord Rathkeale would say. “ Wait a moment, 
Brian. . . . Let us listen to what Geraldine is trying 

to tell us.” Geraldine and Brian soon began to support the 
idea. Live and let live. Why be nasty to Edith, and at- 
tempt to thwart her, if she has set her heart on it? Nerv- 
ous, hysterical old Agatha, unable to make her voice heard 
in debate, wrote a long, rambling letter from the snows of 
the Engadine. “ Edith, in some respects,” wrote Agatha, 
on her sixth page, “ is different from the rest of us. She 
does not yield to persuasion so quickly. And yet hers is a 
temperament that needs firm, guiding hands. If she has 
found the complement of her nature in a very strong char- 
acter, she will probably hold to the idea of a union with 
the greatest tenacity.” 

“ Upon my word,” said Lord Rathkeale, “ I believe that 
Agatha is correct. But she writes about her sister more 
coldly than I should have expected.” 

“ Agatha,” said Lady Rathkeale, “ has never quite done 
Edith justice.” 


X 


For some sort of disillusionment every young wife 
should be prepared — even before the honey-moon is over. 
A readjustment of preconceived notions becomes necessary; 
the unknown is passing into the known ; in a reflective mind 
a sort of profit and loss account should be opened, and then 
slight disappointments of unfulfilled hopes can be balanced 
against hitherto undiscovered merits and unanticipated in- 
crease of love-compelling attributes. If the balance comes 
out on the credit side, the wisely philosophic bride need not 
feel fear when she first entertains the wish that in some 
trifling details the loved one had proved a very little dif- 
ferent. 

The first disappointment of Edith Barnard was when her 
husband told her that the bridal tour could not possibly last 
longer than three weeks. This was after two nights in 
Paris, and they were deciding where they would go next. 

“ So let us do as much and see as much as we can in the 
time, Edie.” 

“Only nineteen days left to us! O Jack. And you 
said yourself you haven’t had a real holiday for years and 
years.” 

But three short weeks were, as he explained, his utmost 
limit for holiday-making. With the end of that period, his 
pair would terminate; boards of directors would require 
his presence; the whole rubber market would be demanding 
his closest personal attention. 

Then with business-like promptitude he made out their 
route and programme — a week for the Riviera, the inside 

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of a week for the Italian lakes, three or perhaps four days 
to be spent in the churches and galleries of Milan and Flor- 
ence, and, after that, home. 

It was in the pleasant April weather, when the South of 
France and Northern Italy are at their best; and she chose 
the hackneyed tourist track because she wanted to revisit 
scenes already familiar to her. 

“ Let it be anywhere you like, my dear Edie ; but throw 
in something of the life of cities if you can conveniently do 
so. Milan or Florence will suit me down to the ground.” 

Her first wish for some slight modification of evident 
facts came to her after luncheon next day, when the rapid 
train was carrying them southward across the dull plains 
of France. She wished then that he did not sleep in the 
daytime; and that in sleep he did not snore and mutter and 
occasionally grind his teeth. 

They had the compartment to themselves, and for a while 
she watched the slowly-moving landscape and would not 
disturb him. 

Here and there, as a huddled village flashed past, the 
kind spring sunlight lit up the steeple of a church, struck 
gayly against the stones of a bridge, or gave her a bright 
glimpse of some walled garden with pink almond blossom 
and yellow jasmine; and then again the view opened, wider 
and wider, into drab-hued flats and faintly-stretching, barren 
slopes that absorbed and deadened all the warmth and light. 
A slate-gray river followed the course of the flying train, 
sweeping away in broad dark curves and sweeping back in 
a widened flood, as if one could never escape from its silent 
and monotonous fellowship; islands with sandy banks and 
bare unfriendly trees looked desolate and lonely in the 
muddy, eddying waters; and for mile after mile the same 
island seemed to slip by, sink beneath the surface, and re- 
appear. Then, when at last the river was gone, a white road 
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took its place, showing diked sides, straight poplars, and 
crooked telegraph poles in an interminable perspective — a 
dusty white road, without life or movement on it, leading 
from nowhere to nowhere. 

She turned from the window, and watched her husband’s 
face with a yearning tenderness. 

It was a noble face, as she saw it thus in repose, full of 
calm power; but the features seemed more rugged and stern 
than when the eyes were giving animation to it. He slept 
quietly now, the firm lips closed, not a sound coming from 
him. 

Watching him intently, she saw that the dust of the train 
had settled on his forehead and cheek-bones, making him 
seem haggard and gray. Then she thought that, sleeping, 
he looked older, very much older than when he was awake. 
Then a horrible thought made her turn once more to the 
lifeless, colorless landscape. She had thought, he would 
look like this if the sleep were eternal, and no one could 
wake him. 

Then very soon the firm lips parted, and he began again 
to snore and mutter. 

“ Jack, wake now.” Her hand was on his arm. 
“ Please don’t sleep any more.” 

“ Ah,” and he roused himself. In a moment he was wide 
awake. “Very refreshing — a nap like that.” 

“ Yes, but you were dreaming.” 

“ No.” 

“ You talked to yourself.” 

“Oh, that’s nothing — a habit. You must break me of 
it. What should I dream about, now that all my dreams are 
realized ? I have got you.” 

“ Used you to dream about me? ” 

“ All night and all day.” 

“ And I used to dream about you. . . . Let me sit 

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by your side. . . . Put your arm round me — they 

won’t see from the corridor. Now we can look at it to- 
gether; and I’ll see if you can drive the sadness out of it 
for me.” 

“ Out of what? ” 

“ Look. That ugly view — the fields, the trees, every- 
thing.” 

“Well, it isn’t much to look at, is it? . . . There’s 

a hole of a town, with a vengeance. Only one man doing 
any business in that place, and only one house that doesn’t 
want painting ” ; and he laughed, with cheerful contempt. 
“ In England it would be the tavern and the tavern-keeper. 
But here it’s the priest and the church that mop up all the 
money the poor beggars earn.” 

“Yes,” said Edith, “you are doing it. Hold me close 
to you,” and she pressed her face against his shoulder. 
“ The sadness wasn’t really out there; it was inside the car- 
riage; it was in me” 

“Because I fell asleep? I suppose that is a shocking 
thing to do on a honey-moon.” 

“You may sleep again when it’s dark. Go on talking 
now — go on doing your duty.” 

“ Quite a pleasure — don’t mention it.” 

“ Jack, my husband, this is what I have counted on. 
You are doing it now; you must do it always; you must 
drive the sadness out of my life.” 

“ Of course I will. But what real sadness can there ever 
have been in my pretty Edie’s life ? ” 

“ Oh, I don’t know. Nothing real. But what all girls 
feel. The last time I saw all this was when we were com- 
ing back from Mentone after a long winter, and I was sad 
then.” 

“ But you were all together. You had your family with 
you. I thought that alone was sufficient bliss.” 

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“ They are dears — and you must never speak mock- 
ingly of my people.” 

“ Heaven forbid ! And if I know anything of them, you 
were all talking — the lot of you — from Mentone to 
Charing Cross.” 

“ Yes, we talked a good deal; but I felt sad.” 

“ What about?” 

“ All sorts of things. I had reached the age when girls 
begin to wonder what life is going to bring them — any- 
thing or nothing? I had all at once begun to feel the aim- 
lessness of half our hopes — and — and — well, the gen- 
eral vanity of human wishes.” She broke off with a laugh. 
“ There, it is done — all of it gone.” 

“ Quite yourself again ? ” 

“Yes — quite. I know now that you’ll not play me 
false. You’ll do your duty. . . . You know, what I 

admired in you first of all was that you are so terribly in 
earnest.” 

“ Well, yes, I don’t as a rule do things in a half and half 
way. But I was never a hundredth part so much in earnest 
as I was about you. And now,” he said again; “I’ve got 
you — to have and to hold, et cetera, et cetera.” 

He was a buoyant, stimulating companion, who threw 
himself into the rare joy of holiday-making with a whole- 
hearted thoroughness. Everything pleased him; everything 
amused him. There was nothing from which he could not 
extract some sort of interest. 

He talked intelligently, and sometimes with extraordinary 
knowledge, upon an endless variety of subjects; but through 
his shrewdness there ran a vein of almost child-like sim- 
plicity. Often he made her smile by a completely naive re- 
mark that seemed to issue from the midst of wisdom. And 
once or twice he startled her by displaying a total igno- 
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ranee of matters she would have imagined were known to all 
the world. 

She noticed how easily he obtained attention and obedi- 
ence. If people did not immediately understand that, as he 
phrased it, he would not put up with nonsense, he very 
soon made them understand. The landlord of the Men- 
tone hotel sent them soaring in the lift to mean little rooms 
on the fourth floor — Numbers 371, 372, 373 — just under 
the roof — with no view of the sea; and the manager re- 
spectfully but firmly assured them that these odious little 
boxes were the only available apartments in the hotel — or, 
for the matter of that, in all Mentone. 

“ Just wait here a minute or two, Edith. Don’t let 
Jefferson unpack your things;” and he and the manager 
went down to the landlord’s bureau. 

She stood waiting in the stuffy, ill-ventilated passage of 
this horrid fourth-floor; and after a very few minutes she 
heard her husband’s voice again, loud and cheerful. 

“ It’s all right, Edie. We are Numbers 6, 7, 8 and 9. 
Come along.” 

And down they went in the lift — to rooms on the first 
floor ; to a bright and gay salon, and lofty, airy bedrooms. 

“We call them our garden suite,” said the manager, bow- 
ing and rubbing his hands with obsequious deference. “ And 
it is just a happy chance to put them for the week at your 
disposal.” 

Through the open window one saw the tops of the feathery 
palms and the pretty orange trees; from the casement one 
could almost reach the golden fruit ; and above the tree tops 
the sea was sparkling like cut glass in the bright sunlight. 
Edith gave a cry of pleasure when the manager threw open 
the door of Number 8. 

“Yes, this is more our form, isn’t it?” said Barnard, 
when the manager had bowed himself out of Number 7. 

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“ But how — by what magic — did you arrange with 
them? ” 

“ Oh, I let them see I was too old a bird to be caught by 
chaff. ... I know their tricks — keeping good rooms 
in reserve, and shoving people anywhere if they’ll put up 
with their nonsense.” 

She loved the sound of his cheerful voice, calling to her 
of a morning from the garden beneath her window. 

“ Edie — how long are you going to be? The carriage 
is here. The luncheon basket is ready.” 

Her maid started when she heard the clear, far-carrying 
tones. Miss Jefferson already recognized in the bridegroom 
the master; and when the master seemed to ask for haste, 
she began to bustle as she had never bustled for the Ladies 
Moville in all the nine years of her service. A glance from 
him made her quail ; a kind word made her blush with grati- 
fication. 

Everybody seemed instinctively aware of the impalpable 
touch of a masterful hand. Dilatory waiters hurried to 
his nod, and became swift-moving slaves. Drivers of hired 
carriages and motor-cars seemed not so much to be engaged 
for the day as to belong to him for ever. He gave his orders 
in very bad though very fluent French, and Edith was sur- 
prised to see that the orders were always comprehended, and 
unfailingly executed. 

They liked him — these humble folk. He might be 
abrupt or angry, or really rude, and they bore no malice. 
When the time came for paying, he paid like a prince; and 
with the noble tip he dropped a word of thanks. 

“ I love you for your generosity,” Edith told him once. 
“You give so freely — to everyone.” 

She had been thinking that, since he worked for all his 
money, there was an added virtue in the careless ease with 
which he spent it. 


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Thinking of all the work he had done, and of the gigantic 
labors which, as he often hinted, still were before him, she 
asked him to describe the exact nature of his business opera- 
tions.' 

“ Oh, my dear, it would take me a week if I really went 
into it — and then you wouldn’t get the hang of it.” 

“ Yes, I would. Try me.” 

“ Well, not now, anyhow. Some time when you fancy 
you’d like a headache. Any real description would cer- 
tainly give you a splitting headache.” 

“ But your work means so much to you ; and I’m so 
proud of you because of it! You mustn’t want to shut me 
out. You’ll let me have some place even in your business 
life? I shall ask you to tell me about it from day to 
day.” 

“ There would be so little to tell — day by day — and 
so difficult, so impossible for you to understand.” 

“But your hopes and fears — just roughly the things 
you are engaged upon. At least I could encourage you — 
sympathize with you if anything went wrong. . . . 

I’d like to think I could help you, somehow, in your 
work.” 

“ You shall help me outside my work.” 

Then, with a gay enthusiasm, he spoke of his mapped 
course, and told her how useful she would be when all the 
commercial toil was finished, and he was a prominent 
member of the Cabinet, busy with the affairs of the Em- 
pire. 

“ That will be eleven years hence — and not a day more. 
I shall be free in six years from now — and then it will 
take me five years to make myself indispensable in any 
Liberal Government. I shall still be on the right side of 
fifty — and that means a boy, in the Cabinet.” 

“Yes, but meanwhile, what are to be my tasks?” 

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“ Meanwhile, you are to give me the happiest home in 
England — to fill it with pretty things and pretty sounds. 
Our house will be your house — and you are to rule it with 
absolute sway.” 

“ Yes, I shall like all the fun of furnishing it. I’ll choose 
really pretty things.” 

“ But the pretty things I crave for are not bought, Edie. 
They are given — by storks that fly over the chimneys — by 
fairies who lay them under currant bushes. Don’t you un- 
derstand? The prettiest sounds in a house are made by 
children playing in the nursery.” 

“ Is that what you count on most? Would it make you 
unhappy if the storks passed our roof, high up — and never 
brought anything to us? ” 

“ Nonsense. The storks will be kind to us. . . . So 

there’s your task, my lady: First to be the best of wives, 
and secondly to be the best of mothers. Isn’t that enough 
for you ? ” 

“ The husband should be first, of course — always first. 
But children,” and she stopped speaking, and looked thought- 
fully at the evening sky. 

They were driving back to the hotel, after a long day’s 
expedition to a village in the hills beyond the Italian fron- 
tier. 

“Well, what were you going to say?” 

“ I was thinking — children bring dreadful responsibili- 
ties — anxieties. I am almost afraid when I think of what 
children mean. I should never be what people call a capa- 
ble mother — I should be in agonies of fright when they 
were ill.” 

“ Ours will be strong and hearty — never ill. . . . 

But don’t you bother your head about that.” 

After dinner he liked to sit in the crowded hall of the 
hotel, and study the cosmopolitan life of the place, while he 
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smoked his cigar and drank his coffee. That evening 'his 
wife sat with him, and they were both amused by the arrival 
of some distinguished English visitors. 

The party consisted of three persons — a very fat elderly 
woman, a rather fat young woman, and a lanky, knock- 
kneed, insipid young man. But, although they were only 
three, they brought with them five servants — two maids, 
a courier, and two tall and heavy-footed British footmen. 
The extent of this attendant train moved Barnard to con- 
temptuous laughter ; and he was highly diverted in watching 
the helplessness of the young man, and his almost imbecile 
dependence on his body-guard. The valets, burdened with 
his wraps and rugs, conducted him as if he had been a child ; 
it was the young woman and not he who talked to the bowing 
manager; and finally the fat old woman took his arm and 
led him to the gates of the lift, where he stood gaping fool- 
ishly. 

“ Take care,” said Edith, in a warning whisper, “ or 
they’ll see you are laughing at them.” 

“ Well, I really can’t help it if they do. That’s just the 
truly British traveling party that the Paris caricaturists 
take off in their comic papers. I wonder who the dickens 
they are.” 

“ I’ll tell you — in a moment,” said Edith. 

They were people whom she had seen at London parties, 
and about whom all the world was well-informed. The 
fat old dame was the rich Mrs. Karsdale, widow of an iron 
king, owner of an enormous house in Grosvenor Square, 
and famous for her Sunday evening concerts. The young 
woman was her daughter ; and the young man — Lord Caris- 
broke — was her recently-acquired son-in-law. 

“ Carisbroke ! ” said Barnard. “ Isn’t he a son of the 
Marquis of Watford? ” 

“ Yes, he is Lord Watford’s eldest son.” 

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“ An hereditary legislator ! Did you ever see such a 
blithering young idiot? ” 

“ Perhaps he isn’t quite so stupid as he looks.” 

“ But he’ll be a marquis. Poor as a church-mouse, I sup- 
pose. And yet, if he had money, he’s just the sort of cor- 
oneted manikin that your father would have liked you to 
marry.” 

He did not whisper this; he said it in his ordinary voice. 
The people drinking coffee at the next table probably heard 
him. 

Edith flushed, and hurriedly rose from her basket 
chair. 

“ I’ll get my cloak, and we’ll stroll on the terrace — shall 
we? It’s a lovely night.” 

Presently she was walking by his side in the silent, peace- 
ful garden, and feeling contented and unruffled again. 
That faint sense of discomfort, almost of disgust, had 
quickly passed away. One must be reasonable, and not 
expect everything. What was the saying of the philosophic 
French? People always have the defects of their good 
qualities. How easily a surface polish can be given to un- 
tutored worth, and how little it really matters if that 
external smoothness never comes! 

“ There,” she said, as they leaned over a balustrade, and 
looked across clustered roofs at the darkness where the sea 
lay invisible. “ There, can you make out a black heap of 
buildings beyond the row of lamps? I believe that’s the 
Hotel Splendide.” 

“ Is it ? Do you think we should have been more com- 
fortable there? ” 

“ Oh, no. But it was where we stayed when we were all 
here.” 

“ Yes, and I remember now, your mother complained 
of the food. No, on. the whole, I don’t think we should 
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have bettered this/’ and he turned, and looked up at the 
lighted windows of the immense fagade. 

Up there, with arc lamps flashing whitely, and the yellow 
radiance pouring out from dozens of rooms, the garden had 
a garish brightness, a tawdry gayety, an artificial aspect, 
as of a scene on the stage; one could see the colors of the 
flowers, and the glistening green of the orange trees; but 
down here, the garden was dark and vague, full of mys- 
tery and romance, an enchanted grove through which there 
came, with the faint whisper of the night air, pretty fancies 
to the mind. 

“ I was thinking/’ said Edith, “ that on nights like this 

— only four years ago — I was there, discontented some- 
times, and sad, as I told you, and not knowing of your 
existence.” 

“ Nor I of yours.” 

“ But you were drawing nearer to me — nearer and 
nearer, though I was feeling deserted and alone.” 

“ Deserted? How do you mean? ” 

“ Only thoughts — not realities. What all girls think 

— that life is building them a prison, and that they rpay 
perhaps never escape — that no strong knight is hacking his 
way through the gloomy forest, to blow a blast at the 
castle gate, and set the prisoner free. But you were com- 
ing — through darkness, through time, through space — my 
strong, rescuing knight.” 

“ Edith ! That’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to 
me.” 

“ Is it? It’s true, Jack. I feel it. I want to feel it.” 

And, as he kissed her, he unexpectedly found her face 
wet with tears. 

“ But, my darling, there’s no need to cry about it. You’ve 
got me now.” 

“Yes;” and she dried her eyes, and laughed. “Say 
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something sweet to me — return the compliment. Say the 
things that can only be said in darkness.” 

“ Well, then — if I had been offered all the women now 
alive, I would have chosen you.” 

“ O Jack, you could say that anywhere — in broad day- 
light.” 

“ What a vain girl! Could any man say more? ” 

“Tell me again the things you thought of me. You 
know — that I was a princess.” 

“Yes, that’s exactly what I used to think all the time, 
till you had pity and took me out of my misery.” 

“ Used to think ! Do you know that it’s too soon to 
speak of it as if it was all in the dim past?” and she 
laughed again, and pressed her hands upon his arm. “ Am 
I not still your princess — now and then — out here, when 
you can’t see me quite as I am ? ” 

“ No, you are my wife — my dearest little wife.” 

There was love and there was triumph in his voice; but 
again she felt the disillusionment caused by the something 
not there, the something necessary to fulfill the needs of a 
transient mood. It was as if unconsciously he had put, 
or was putting, all the early admiring stages of his love far 
behind him. In his tone now, and several times before 
this, she had caught the same satisfied contentment, as if 
the marriage so ardently desired had been the consummation 
of a piece of business, a stiff bit of work that he had brought 
to a most successful issue. 

“You were never sure of yourself then, Jack. You used 
to have all sorts of silly doubts. You said you wished 
impossible things.” 

“Yes, but only for your sake.” 

“ Tell me them again.” 

“ I used to wish myself some one else. That shows what 
my love was. I wished myself myself really, I suppose, but 

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somehow changed by the fairies into a dressed-up lordling 
— late of the Blues — decorated in war — able to play 
polo, and strut across the lawn at Hurlingham in boots and 
breeches — grinning from ear to ear, and perspiring like a 
bull — and— ” 

“ Oh, don’t go on. If you had been like that, I would 
never have cared for you.” 

“Sure you are satisfied? Nothing you want altered in 
me? No improvements you could suggest?” 

“ No,” she said, after a moment’s hesitation. “ Be your- 
self always — be just yourself.” 

“ Absolutely certain that you wouldn’t have preferred 
some gilded fop, who would have nothing to do in the 
world except look pretty and dance attendance at your 
elbow ? ” 

“Yes, I am certain.” 

“ Not afraid of being the wife of a working man? ” 

“ No, no.” 

“ Then that’s all right,” and he snapped his fingers. “ I’m 
a lucky, lucky dog, and I don’t deserve my luck. And do 
you know what I’m looking forward to when we are back 
in London? I shall go about with you this year as much 
as I possibly can; and, wherever we go, my treat will be 
reading the faces of all the men — and seeing how much 
they envy me.” 

“ Very few of them will envy you.” 

“ Rubbish. I shall be nobody now, and yet bursting with 
pride. The society papers will write of me as the husband 
of the beautiful Lady Edith Barnard.” 

“ They’ll never call me that. No one but you has ever 
thought me beautiful.” 

“ How can you tell such fibs? I’m sure your own people 
called you so every day.” 

“Never. They thought me nice-looking — and a few 

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others did, too. But that was the best adjective I have ever 
been honored with.” 

“ Is that a fact? ” 

He asked the question abruptly, with the simple directness 
that she had noticed as almost child-like. 

“Yes — the dreadful truth. But, Jack, if I am beautiful 
in your eyes, surely that’s enough. It is me you wanted. 
You wouldn’t think I had gone down in value, because 
others didn’t want me as much? I’m not like your stocks 
and shares — with a price quoted every day.” 

“ No. You aren’t offended, are you? ” 

“ Of course not. But I think I’ll go indoors now. It 
is getting rather cold.” 

In their pretty, first-floor sitting-room he turned on all 
the switches of the electric light. 

“Now,” he cried, jovially, “we can see what’s what 
and who’s who,” and he put his hands on her shoulders, and 
held her in front of him at arm’s length. “ Let’s have a 
good look at you. Yes, rubbish! Who dares say you are 
not a beauty? ” 

“ Don’t. Let me go, please.” 

“ No. Stand still. You silly girl. I believe you are 
offended with me. Mayn’t a man look at the wife of 
his bosom? ” 

“ No — not as if she were a horse — or a piece of furni- 
ture — something you had bought.” 

“ I’m glorying in having got a chef-d'oeuvre 

“ Don’t boast.” She was very pale ; and her lips had 
been twitching nervously. “ Let me help you to find the 
blemishes in your new purchase. My hair is all my own 
— what there is of it. But it’s not as much as it seems. 
It is coarse hair — and that makes it easy to do — Jefferson 
will tell you so.” 

“ It is the loveliest hair in the world.” 


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“ My complexion is very bad — not white like ivory, 
but like a kid glove. My eyebrows are too thick. My 
eyes are lacking in expression, and there are often ugly blue 
circles around them.” 

“ They are not ugly. They took my fancy the first 
night I saw you.” 

“ Then that was some queer taste peculiar to yourself. 
But the world at large will never take a fancy to me. If 
you wanted your friends to stare and envy — there’s not 
an actress on the picture-postcards who wouldn’t have served 
your purpose better than I.” 

“ My dear girl, what’s the matter with you ? What in 
the name of common sense has upset you ? ” 

He had dropped his hands; and, with a shrug of the 
shoulders, he turned and walked to the window. For a 
minute he stood silent, and then he heard the rustle of her 
dress as she moved across the room. 

“Jack.” 

He turned from the window, and spoke with renewed 
cheerfulness. 

“ All nonsense, eh? Not real tantrums? ” 

“No — of course not. Only fun. But, Jack — ” She 
had come to him, and was holding the silk lapel of his 
jacket. “Take one more look at me — a long look. And 
tell me truly, can’t you see any traces, nothing at all left 
— of your princess?” 

“No. I see something infinitely better — my own dear 
wife. But my wife is pale and tired, and fatigue has made 
her just a wee bit fretful.” 

“ Yes, your wife is tired. Your wife will go to bed.” 

From her seat in the Genoa train she looked back at 
the eastern bay of Mentone, and thought of what she was 
now and what she had been four years ago. 


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She was in safe hands now; and she told herself that she 
liked the sensation of being guided, controlled, taken charge 
of. No longer any need to wonder what the future would 
bring; no chance to lose herself in self-questionings, dreams 
of what might have happened, vain regrets. She had found 
her road in the trackless maze, and henceforth must follow 
it to its unknown destination. 

More and more she felt the strength and capacity of her 
husband. He would be splendid in any emergency, so 
quick to grasp a situation; no matter what difficulties sur- 
rounded her, he would always be there to protect and guard 
her. 

She was proud of him at Genoa. The railway station 
was in its customary state of raving chaos — dirty, tumultu- 
ous, evil-smelling; trains arriving hours behind their time, 
starting from wrong platforms with insufficient carriages; 
passengers distraught, carrying their own luggage across the 
rails, changed from sedate citizens into a desperate mob, 
driven mad by the careless incompetence of this smiling 
southern land. But to-day, John Barnard, calm and strong 
in the midst of gregarious frenzy, took charge of Genoa 
station. 

In rapid and faulty Italian, he told the lax officials 
that they must and should attend to their travelers. He 
uttered no threats; but he made everybody obey. He told 
rushing, shouting English tourists to behave themselves with 
propriety — and, though resenting the firmness of his man- 
ner, these strangers all submitted to his directions. His 
manner was perhaps a little too firm — too firm to the ladies, 
especially. But otherwise he was splendid. 

“ I expect my Italian makes you laugh, Edie.” 

Thanks to his efforts, they were again comfortably 
seated in the train that was to take them to the fairy land and 
fairy water of the lakes. 

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“ They understand you, Jack. And you are never at a 
loss for a word — even if it isn’t the right one.” 

She was feeling very proud of him, and she spoke gayly 
and happily. 

“ I learnt Italian from a barber who shaved me, and by 
jabbering to the waiters at a little restaurant in Soho. I 
used to go to dinner and to school all in one. But directly 
I had picked up enough for business, I had to stop. I 
couldn’t go on, and perfect myself.” 

“ You couldn’t afford the time? ” 

“ Clever girl. You have hit it at once* And it’s the 
same with my French and my German — just enough for 
business. You see, with me, time has been my only real 
wealth. Time was my stock in trade, my everything. I 
used to say to myself, nothing else matters. Give me time, 
and I’ll supply all the rest.” 

Whatever the circumstances in which chance placed him, 
he would be ready and able to defend himself and his rights: 
too well able, and too ready, perhaps. This was her 
thought when they arrived at the Lake of Como; for here 
something occurred to distress her. 

There was a crowd waiting for the steam-boat. 
Stretching from the road to the edge of the pier, the boat 
passengers stood closely packed, but in orderly and patient 
procession, and, when the boat came, slowly advanced 
toward the gangway. 

“ See,” said Barnard, “ here are our aristocratic friends 
again.” 

Fat Mrs. Karsdale, with daughter, maids, and lordly 
son-in-law, was in the queue some distance ahead of them, 
stopping the advance, indeed, while the portly dame fitted 
herself to the narrow gangway and ponderously embarked. 

Then, while all were waiting patiently, one of the big 
attendant footmen came rudely pushing, boldly broke the 
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queue, and introduced his menial bulk between two indig- 
nant passengers a little way from the gangway. 

“ None of that,” said Barnard, loudly. “ Turn and 
turn about. You there. I am speaking to you. Come out 
of that, and take your proper place.” 

“ My proper place is behind my ladies,” said the foot- 
man, impudently. “ I must follow my ladies.” 

“ Now, no nonsense,” said Barnard. “ Go back. Get 
out of that.” 

“ Never mind,” whispered Edith. 

“What business of yours?” asked the footman, looking 
round and showing his puffy, over-nourished flunkey face. 
“ Don’t you interfere with me.” 

Barnard had abandoned his own place. In a moment he 
held the intruder by the collar, was pulling him backwards 
along the pier, and the next moment the two men were 
fighting in the dusty road. The queue broke itself and 
scattered ; people shouted in many tongues. 

It was all over directly. Edith had glimpses of her 
husband’s back, of the footman going down beneath a blow, 
of him getting up, staggering forward to attack, and of him 
going down again. Then the noisy, gesticulating crowd 
shut out the ugly sight. The queue re-formed and pushed 
her onward to the gangway and the boat, where the ter- 
rified Jefferson found an upper deck seat for her. 

“ Here he comes,” said Miss Jefferson, looking shoreward 
in panic-struck fascination. “ The master punished him 
something dreadful, but he brought it on himself, didn’t he, 
my lady ? ” 

Mr. Barnard came on board, sat by his wife’s side, and 
smiled at her reassuringly. 

“Very sorry, Edie, to make a rumpus about nothing. 
But I had to give that joker a lesson.” 

The subdued footman was on the lower deck, out of sight, 

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dusting his billycock hat, and furtively dabbing a handker- 
chief to his forehead and mouth. 

Upon the upper deck, opposite to the Barnards, his august 
employers, all unconscious of the recent shindy, were wrap- 
ping themselves with rugs and talking about the sunset 
glow on the hill-tops. 

“Will you speak to them about it?” asked Edith, in a 
shaky voice. 

“ No, why should I ? ” 

“ To explain why you struck their servant.” 

“ No, I shan’t bother about them.” 

“ But suppose he begins another row when we get to 
Bellagio ? ” 

Barnard glanced at a slight abrasion on the knuckles of 
his right hand, and smiled grimly. 

“ He won’t begin another row. He has had all he 
wants.” 

Edith sat trembling by the side of her husband. The 
episode was horrible to her, degrading and disgusting, spoil- 
ing all her pride in his Genoa performance. To fight with 
his fists, as drunken boors fight at street corners until 
policemen separate them, to knock about a wretched servant, 
to forget that her eyes and the eyes of the world were upon 
him! His dignity had gone to the winds, blown away in 
a moment by savage, uncontrollable anger. But no, he was 
not really overcome by wrath; he had not even that poor 
excuse; he did not in the least comprehend the enormity 
of his conduct. He had acted on impulse, in the manner 
natural to common people who have never been taught by 
refining discipline to check their base and brutal instincts. 

Then she tried to take her maid’s lenient view. The 
poor wretch had been grossly impertinent. She tried to 
reinstate her husband in his proper attributes of generous, 
kindly strength and rugged dignity; she thought of the 
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footman’s great size, and would not think of his puffy face. 
He was a ferocious giant of a footman, insulting inoffen- 
sive wayfarers, calling forth a champion to quell him. She 
desperately tried to make her husband’s action seem heroic, 
not ignoble ; and at last, before the boat reached Bel- 
lagio, she succeeded — almost. But the incident had shaken 
her. 

She was all right by the end of the evening. The sick 
distaste had passed away. One must be reasonable; one 
must not expect everything. Anyhow, she had got a real 
man, not a manikin like Lord Carisbroke. 

They had climbed the narrow, staircase-street; and now 
they were high above the sun-warmed roofs of Bellagio, 
drinking their tea in the pleasant shade of the Serbelloni 
garden. It was a glorious afternoon, the waters of the 
lake unruffled, flashing fire through the tender green of 
budding trees, and the blue sky cloudless, limpid, shedding 
a calm splendor to the ends of the earth. 

They were perched like birds, high above the trade and 
traffic of the little town; and the sense of freedom and 
immensity swelled in the hearts of the assembled tea- 
drinkers, so that common thoughts took wings and soared, 
so that sordid cares dropped away from one, fell and dis- 
appeared, as pebbles thrown by idle hands from the ter- 
raced walls to the shining depths of the lake. 

And here her husband for the first time talked to her 
freely about his work. A letter from London, received that 
morning, had set him brooding on business matters. 

“ Half the trouble of life,” he said, “ is caused by people 
thinking for you. I don’t want people to think for me. 
Now I left explicit instructions with my tame idiots in 
Arundel Street; but it isn’t good enough for them to do 
what they’ve been told. No, confound them, they must 
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begin to think: ‘ He couldn’t have intended so-and-so. He 
must have made a mistake.’ ” 

Then, talking on, he plunged into rubber — just rubber. 
The Bankana Estate Ltd.; the Felicia Plantations Ltd.; 
the North and the South Kegombos, the New Willing- 
fords — these were names that struck her ears like a 
recurrent beat in a vague, pulsating rhythm. 

“Are you following me? You wanted to get the hang 
of it. And, if you didn’t know what the companies are 
called, you’d never follow me.” 

“Yes, I think I am following you. You say they wish 
to account for something too soon? ” 

“ Exactly. The first crop of New Willingford No. 2. 
It ought never to have been spoken of. No one should 
have known there r was a crop. The shareholders begin to 
fidget the moment they hear you have cleared the ground. 
Now our policy is to keep shareholders quiet as long as 
possible. It’s in their own interests: they’ll get more to 
grab when the proper time comes. Honestly, I don’t be- 
lieve there’s a man in London except myself who knows 
what the rubber boom is going to be. All the fools on 
top of omnibuses know we’re in for a big boom, but no 
one guesses how big it is going to be. I know.” 

Then, with an astounding energy of enthusiasm, he told 
her what she might anticipate when she gauged the future 
status of raw rubber as a marketable commodity. 

“ It is going to beat gold. Gold mines, diamond mines 
will be nothing to it. Here are some figures for you to 
lock up tight in that clever little head. Keep them there, 
and never let them out. J. B. is lifting the veil for you, 
telling you things that he would not tell to anyone.” And 
then came the figures. 

“ In five years from now rubber is going to be eight 
shillings a pound. But it won’t stop at that. It’ll be 
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nine shillings, ten shillings a pound, and we shall be pay- 
ing dividends of one, two, three hundred per cent. Our 
one pound shares of the best estates will rise to twenty — 
thirty — forty. Figure that out. Every thousand pounds 
invested worth a small fortune. I’ll tell you something 
more — ” 

He went on talking. And what he had predicted came 
to pass. His description of his business was beginning to 
make her head ache. 

She remembered a visit with her father to a printing 
office. Lord Rathkeale, one morning, wasting busy peo- 
ple’s time, gave himself the enjoyment of seeing a newspaper 
rolled off the press. The manager explained things, 
shouted in their ears, waved his arms, pointed now here, 
now there; but the great machines went rolling on, drown- 
ing sound and sense. If the manager had stopped the 
machines, one could not have properly understood; but in 
the deafening clatter and racket one felt a dull pain across 
the temples, if one made the slightest effort to understand. 
And she felt like that now, while Barnard went on talking. 

“ But if there’s all these thousands and hundreds of 
thousands to be made, why don’t I pack my sacks with 
golden sovereigns and say Good-morning — Good-by to 
the whole gang? Because I must wait for the harvest with 
the rest, and worse than that, I must glean where they 
have reaped. Can you realize this? For every sovereign 
I make for myself, I am making thousands and thousands 
of sovereigns for other people. That’s something I 
couldn’t knock into your father if I talked to him for a 
fortnight. 

“ On the face of it, it seems rough luck. I might, after 
my first success, have easily raised capital — borrowed it 
from men who had learnt to trust me — and speculated 
simply for myself. But then, if the luck failed me, even 
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temporarily, I should have cooked my goose. At any rate, 
the word would have gone round, John Barnard has changed 
his plan. John Barnard is on the make for himself, and 
no one else. Look out for John Barnard. 

“ But no, I’ve built things up on a firm basis; honest, 
straight-forward dealing. That’s the real strength of my 
position. When I issue a prospectus — Bang! It’s like 
firing a gun: a signal for people to run to me with the 
money in their hands. I could have subscribed Felicia No. 
2 four times over. The rich men, the big men, tumble 
over each other in their hurry to put their names down. 
And w’hy? They know it’s genuine enterprise: it’s a J. B. 
flotation. The fair price, the cost price, asked. No mid- 
dle-man profits swelling out the amount of the capital. 
Not one penny going into my pocket — John Barnard on 
the same footing as the smallest shareholder, taking his 
dividends for the solid cash he has put into the concern, and 
taking nothing else — except of course his wages for work 
done, wages earned twice, thrice, ten times over.” 

The garden was empty now — all the tea-drinkers had 
gone. Bright patches of sunlight beneath the trees had 
slowly contracted and vanished; the shadows had crept 
half way up the vast hillsides over the lake of Lecco; and 
still he was talking. 

“ And what is the consequence? If I issued a prospectus 
to-morrow asking for a million sterling, I believe I’d get 
it — yes, I know I’d get it. How many men in London 
can say that? Is there one of my age, who began with 
nothing and no one behind him ? 

“ Your father couldn’t see the strength of my position, 
couldn’t see that I have any right to blow my own trumpet. 
Very good: he doesn’t understand. But I’ll confess to you 
— this once — that I am proud, yes, prouder of it than 
I should be of any number of dead relatives who fought 

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at Agincourt and came over with the Conqueror. I say 
it’s wonderful to have faced the world and mastered it as I 
have done.” 

He stretched out his arms in a wide-sweeping gesture, 
as if, feeling lord of earth and sky, he would sweep the 
sun-lit summits of the mountains into the shadow of the 
lakes, and give himself more air, more space. 

Nearly all that night he tossed and turned in his sleep, 
and muttered without pause. 

The long and enthusiastic talk had perhaps set his brain 
working too actively, and now some unconscious labor 
was going on while he slept. Edith, lying awake till dawn, 
thought again of the unceasing energy of mechanical force. 
She thought of what she had heard of great factories, 
where the machinery is grinding on night and day. Sleep 
cannot shut off its activity. Perhaps the furnace is 
banked down, pressure in boilers is reduced, some wheels 
and bands are disconnected; but the main part of the 
mechanism is fruitlessly operating through the silent 
night, till all its weary slaves return and the new day’s work 
begins. 

It was such a morning as one sees only on Como when 
April is changing into May. 

He had taken a boat, and was sculling her across the 
lake to look at one of the villas which all tourists ought 
to visit. The water swirled about the scull-blades at each 
stroke, and made a rippling music as it broke against the 
bows. Other music, faint and far, came floating to them, 
cow-bells tinkling, voices singing and calling in field and 
vineyard. At a distance, where the land came down 
dressed with flowers to see its smiling face reflected in the 
broad lake-mirror, there was a mist still hanging; but on 
the nearer heights the sun’s rays were unveiled, and the 

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green slopes, cloven ridges, and rocky furrows, had a me- 
tallic, dazzling brightness. 

“ Take it easy, Jack. Let the boat glide. I want you 
to look over there. Do you see those white buildings with 
the cypresses behind them ? Do you know what they 
are ? ” 

“ Little chapels or shrines, I suppose.” 

“Yes, but so many.” 

“ Oh, they never stint themselves.” 

“ Look higher, and you’ll see more. One after another, 
all the way up the hill. They are for the stations of the 
Cross. The top one had only just been finished when I 
came here with my people. It was built by the peasants.” 

“ The peasants ? Poor wretches, still at the mercy of 
that old superstition.” 

“Yes,” she said, thoughtfully, “it always seems a cruel 
thraldom, wherever you see it. Ireland, Italy — but I 
oughtn’t to say that. I am prejudiced against the church 
of Rome. It’s in my blood, father says.” 

Barnard had let the sculls swing in the rowlocks; he was 
relighting his pipe. 

“ Of course,” she said, more to herself than to him, “ it’s 
wrong to feel like that about other creeds. One ought to 
see the good that Catholicism has done, and forget the harm. 
Besides, we all of us worship the same God.” 

“ Speak for yourself, my dear.” He was puffing at his 
pipe, and he blew out a cloud of smoke that hovered in the 
sluggish air. “ There goes my worship ; incense piously sent 
up by John Barnard. And the unseen powers may settle 
among themselves which shall have the honor of claiming it.” 

“ Does that mean you don’t believe? ” 

“ Liberty of conscience, Edith,” and he laughed cheer- 
fully. “ Each one a law unto himself. You’ll never find 
me preaching rationalism to you, or any other ’ism.” 

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There was a pause, while he puffed out more little blue 
clouds; and then she asked him another question. 

“ But, quite seriously, dont you believe in God — at 
all?” 

“ I did once, when I was a child. But I grew out of it 
before I was big enough to wear trousers. My poor mother 
was a very religious woman, so I never told her. It would 
only have worried her.” 

“ Did you go to church with her ? ” 

‘‘Yes, my dear; and I’ll go to church with you — when- 
ever I can,” and he laughed again. “ We four will go on 
fine Sundays, and w T alk in the park afterwards. Little 
John, with his first sailor suit, shall take my hand; and you 
shall lead little Edith, tricked out in white muslin. And 
you shall teach them both their catechism. They shall be 
orthodox little Christians — till they grow out of it. 

“ All the best authorities are agreed that, from the edu- 
cational point of view, religion is good for young people, 
though it makes adults bilious and crotchetty. Like barley 
sugar, and fairy tales — good for the growing child,” and 
he put down his pipe and began to row again. 

She had not listened to his last words. She was think- 
ing. No religion! She thought what that meant. No 
belief in a life after this life. 

There were famous art treasures in the rooms and halls of 
the villa; and the English guide, conducting the Barnards 
and other visitors, took a boastful pride in displaying them. 
Barnard, at the guide’s elbow, w T as deeply interested by all 
that could be shown him. 

“There,” said the guide. “The Empty Tomb — world- 
renowned — the master-piece of Botticelli.” 

“ Oh ! Oh ! ” said the tourists. 

“ It is the finest picture ever painted,” said the guide. 

“ Is that a fact? ” said Barnard. 


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The now familiar form of the question made Edith smile. 

“ How could it be a fact, Jack, when it is only a matter 
of opinion ? ” 

‘‘What’s that? Ah, I see what you mean. You’d never 
get people to agree. They’d all have their own opinions. 
Well, I only deal in facts. I haven’t time for opinions.” 

As they went back to the boat, he told her something of 
his method of collecting facts. 

“ You may laugh at me, my lady, but I really do know 
something about pictures. I could reel you off the big- 
wigs in all the principal schools, and I’d wager I’d give a 
fair guess of the sort of price a good example of their work 
would fetch at Christie’s.” 

In art, in science, in literature, he had always tried to 
garner usful facts, in the quickest possible time. “ No 
trimming and embroidery, two or three solid facts; some- 
thing that gives firm ground under one’s feet. If a book 
doesn’t give me what I want, I’m done with it in two min- 
utes.” 

And then he spoke of his reading, the severe study of 
law, the whole fabric of commerce and finance, the complex 
principle of social and political economy. “ The books I 
have read, really read, mind you, would fill a large library. 
And all of them books read for a fixed purpose.” 

“ And the books you read for pleasure, for amusement ? ” 

“ They don’t exist. Every novelist, poet, and essayist 
would starve, if he had to depend on people like me. They 
are spinning brain cobwebs; and we, who want every cor- 
ner of our brains kept neat and tidy for our own use, cannot 
permit cobwebs.” 

He dealt solely in facts. She thought of this, of all that 
it implied. No joy in art, no solace in literature, the won- 
derland of the imagination barred out with iron doors. 

But he was probably deceiving himself. He could not 
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mean all that he said. Indeed, there was the lecture to 
disprove it. His knowledge and appreciation of Tolstoy 
showed that he had read for pleasure, and that he felt an 
enthusiastic sympathy with an idealist’s teaching. She re- 
minded him of the lecture. 

“Oh, my lecture! That w T as quite a success, wasn’t it, 
Edie?” 

Then he told her how he had bought a shilling’s worth of 
Tolstoy, and extracted half a dozen quotations during twenty 
minutes of a railway journey. 

“ Is that really all you know of Tolstoy? ” 

“ A bowing acquaintance, my dear. ‘ Good morning, 
Count. Good night, Count.’ ” 

“ But, in the little you read, you found some sort of echo 
to your own thoughts? You did really feel all you said, so 
eloquently, Jack?” 

“ Oh, yes,” he replied firmly. “ We all feel what I said, 
but there’s no cure for the misery and the rest of it. Where 
the clap-trap comes in is pretending that we believe there’s 
any remedy, or that we would sacrifice one moment’s com- 
fort in applying the remedy, if it lay within the reach of our 
hands.” 

“ Then were you just pretending? ” 

“ I was spouting , Edie. There’s no other word for it. 
I spoke without a single note; I hadn’t thought out any- 
thing; I let fly what came into my head at the moment. 
But it went well, didn’t it. Quite a success? ” 

“ Yes, quite.” 

u Not to mention the fact that it brought me into touch 
with you.” 

This was the worst of her slight disillusionments. 

Next day, and again on the morrow, he was worried 
about the state of affairs in Arundel Street. A second dis- 

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turbing letter arrived. He swore at the idiots who were 
misconducting the business of his offices. 

“ I do think I am plagued with the set of damnedest fools 
that ever drove a man out of his senses. Of course I have 
never left them for so long before, and they are like a lot of 
frightened children. But, damn them, they might keep 
quiet, and do nothing. If they’d go out and play on the 
Embankment, damn them ! ” 

Then his wife suggested that they should curtail the 
honeymoon and go back to London. 

“ No,” he said. “ They shan’t rob you of your pleasure, 
whatever happens. Why, we have six clear days before us 
— of th.e time I promised you.” 

“Never mind. You feel fidgety and troubled: you feel 
you ought to be there. I am ready. I shall like to go 
back.” 

He hesitated. 

“ No, that would be too bad.” 

“ I’ll tell Jefferson to begin packing. Yes, I really want 
to go.” 

“ But it may be some time before I can take another holi- 
day.” 

“ Never mind. Let us go home.” 

“ Home. How jolly that sounds ! ” He snapped his 
fingers gayly, as he walked with big strides about the room. 
“ You’ll have occupation and amusement in the house — ar- 
ranging everything; but you are an unselfish girl in giving 
up these five days. Edie, you’re a trump, a wife out of a 
million.” 

That night they slept at Basle, and next morning they 
were homeward bound in the swift Calais train. 

Mountains and lakes had dropped far behind them; they 
had left the land of romance, and were speeding through 
scenes of amenable proportions and comfortable tameness. 

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Yet the country was pretty enough, with its spring verdure 
on wooded slopes and flat meadows. But its prosperity 
threatened its insignificant charms. The towns lay too 
close together. At rapid intervals the grass beneath or- 
chard trees was changed to dust and ashes, rusty heaps of 
refuse came billowing across the plain, blackened chimneys 
rose in the place of silver-stemmed larches; rushing through 
the darkness thrown by brick walls, one saw in glimpses 
narrow, dirty streets thronged with busy men and women; 
then one rushed out again, from shadow to sunlight, and 
the ugly industrial town hurled its smoke and dust after 
the escaping train, so that one might carry on the journey a 
sense of the labor that obliterates beauty. 

Edith, turning her eyes, glanced at her life-companion, 
and thought of her life-journey. 


XI 


Their house was in Buckingham Gate, and she herself 
had chosen it: “One of the largest residences in this fa- 
vored locality” — so the auctioneers described it — “and 
a perfectly preserved example of the matchless architecture 
of Queen Anne’s reign.” There were rooms on either side 
of the paneled hall; and the shallow oak staircase carried 
you to a lofty first floor, and a really noble drawing-room 
with five narrow windows looking out, across the barrack 
yard and Birdcage Walk, to green trees, sparkling water, 
and the massive piles of the Government offices. 

Edith and her decorators and upholsterers made the house 
very pretty, striking the true Queen Anne note, and keep- 
ing in tune throughout their performance. Not too much 
furniture, and all of it old and very, very good; polished 
floors, hanging lusters, and gilt-framed mirrors. Really, 
Mr. Addison and the wits, Sarah Marlborough and the 
fine ladies, had they revisited this favored locality, should 
have felt at home at Number 96. The master of the house, 
writing cheques and applauding results, observed that, in 
spite of Queen Anne and an unnecessary horror of modern 
knickknacks, his home had been made bright and cheerful of 
aspect. His wife had brought with her none of the dingy 
solemnness and fading yet still oppressive grandeur of her 
old home in Albemarle Street. 

“ Clever girl,” he said, encouragingly. “ Stick to your 
task: put your back into it; and make these rotters finish 
the place without delay.” 

The last mirror was fixed to the wall, and the master and 
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mistress were established and ready to receive visitors while 
June was still young. 

“ Bravo,” cried Barnard, jovially. “ What a wife! And 
what taste! My clever girl has done it all herself.” 

Indeed she had worked hard, and felt sorry when the task 
was over. 

He had promised not to interfere, and he kept his promise. 

“ Whatever you like, my dear. Please yourself, and you’ll 
please me,” words to this effect formed his reply whenever 
she consulted him. He expressed only one opinion; and 
that was about the liveries of the two tall young footmen. 

Edith had a free choice as to tint and trimming, since 
there were no traditions or sartorial laws of the Barnard 
family to bind her. 

“You know more about such things than I do, Edie. 
But I would suggest: Don’t go in for too much refine- 
ment. I mean, not all black, for instance. I think, if one 
has footmen, it’s just as well that people should guess what 
they are by their clothes, and not mistake them for the cook’s 
younger brothers.” 

Edith chose fawn-colored coats, claret-colored collars, and 
silver buttons. 

But then came a doubtful question. Livery buttons and 
carriage doors are apt to look rather blank and queer with- 
out the customary decoration. Instinctively one misses the 
heraldic badge. 

Edith smilingly asked for instructions. A matter of no 
consequence whatever, but would he wish, at this stage 
of his successful progress, to provide himself with a crest? 
The Heralds’ College would of course promptly look out 
some winged beast or headed fowl for the chieftain of this 
lesser branch of the Barnard clan. However, he postponed 
the crest to a later day. 

“When I’ve shot my bolt in the Commons, and they 
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kick me upstairs, I’ll do it then. Yes, Edie, when they 
give me a peerage, I’ll do the job all in one — pedigree, 
coat of arms, and the whole set-out. Meantime,” he added 
carelessly, “ use the Moville crest, if you like, /’ll pay the 
three guineas for the license. I’ll pay anything to make you 
happy.” 

She put his monogram on the buttons ; and he thought the 
plain J. B. looked better than any fantastically snobbish 
device. 

J. B. It seemed to him that those two letters were 
stamped upon the whole house. Walking to it one after- 
noon, he paused by the barrack railing and regarded it 
from a little distance. The sunlight flashed from the var- 
nished panels of the big motor-car that stood at the door; 
the white paint of the cornice was fresh and new; the old 
brick-work had been neatly pointed; sun-blinds were drawn 
over the five drawing-room windows, and beneath the 
blinds the blue and white window-boxes overflowed with 
gay blossoms. Then, as he approached, a footman came 
out, wearing his dust coat and flat peaked cap to match 
the chauffeur. The other footman, bareheaded, showed 
himself on the steps; the butler looked out from the open 
door; and then there issued from the house the slender, 
graceful figure of his wife, in big feathered hat, with laces, 
flounces, gauzy rustlingly fashionable skirts. 

He felt a warm full glow of joy in the sight of his pos- 
sessions, as if the June sunshine was coursing through his 
veins, mingling with his blood, to send a richer satisfaction 
to the brain. All these things were his own — house, 
servants, and wife fit for a nobleman, won for himself by 
obscure John Barnard, wrested from the struggling world- 
battle by the force of sheer fight, and nothing else. 

For a moment he thought of the old house in Willing- 
ford High Street; but its picture would not form itself 
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and permit the gratification of a swift comparison. Some- 
thing dim and insignificant, that was all he could mentally 
see. The faint memory of the dream-like past would not 
oppose itself to the vivid reality of the glorious present. 

For the pleasure of riding by her side, he asked his wife 
if she could wait a minute, and then give him and his bag of 
papers a lift to the palace of Westminster. 

“Lovely, pretty dress, Edie. Ai style — crashing. Go 
to the best shops for your things. What a jolly after- 
noon. I wish I was spending it with you. Now, you are 
to understand, there’s no need for us to pinch and screw. 
Be extravagant about frocks and hats. Make your modest 
little splash,” and he gave direct expression to another of 
his habitual thoughts. “ I want your people to see that, 
after all, you haven’t done so badly.” 

Her people were quite of this mind. Edith had justified 
her persistence in carrying out that idea of hers. Wherever 
they met her, in her home or out of it, they heard evidence 
of Mr. Barnard’s kindness or saw signs of his generosity. 

Lady Rathkeale, chaperoning short-sighted Agatha at a 
grand evening-party, failed to recognize her married 
daughter, because of the truly magnificent jewels she was 
wearing. The staircase was crowded ; and Lady Rathkeale, 
slowly ascending, watched and admired the tiara on the 
dark hair and the rows of pearls on the white neck, as they 
mounted from step to step before her. Then, to her sur- 
prise, she heard the servant announce the pearls as Lady 
Edith Barnard. 

“ Yes,” said Edith, presently, when Agatha was blinking 
at these new ornaments. “ Aren’t they too lovely — far 
too grand for me? He would buy them. I told him not 
to.” 

“ And I told her they were a good investment,” said Mr. 

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Barnard, with a gratified smile. “ Pearls are going up in 
value, must go up, because the supply will never be equal to 
the demand.” 

“You really are,” said Lady Rathkeale, “ the most gen- 
erous creature that ever lived. I have always said so.” 

While his wife talked to her friends and relations Bar- 
nard looked about him contentedly. This was “ a tip-top 
affair ” ; here were wives of ambassadors, of dukes and 
lords, of cabinet ministers, landed proprietors, really rich 
men; and his wife ran no danger of being outshone and 
outglittered by the best of them. That was something for 
the old lady to go home to Albemarle Street and cackle about. 
If Edie had relied solely on them for her jewelry, she would 
have been wearing a diamond heart the size of a sixpence. 

She had opened many doors to him in the social world. 
As a bachelor he had never noticed or cared whether he 
could or could not pass through them. But he went now 
with pleasure to great houses; stood near his introducer, 
and admired her. She was so graceful and charming that 
all must admire her, even though the newspapers did not call 
her beautiful. 

And the wider circles into which he followed her would 
be useful to him in business. He could recruit share- 
holders. He had access to men whom he had not as yet 
encountered. He felt that his marriage had done him good. 
H is fame was growing; more and more people were learning 
who he was and what he was. He became pleasantly 
conscious in the city, in the House, and at his clubs, that he 
bulked larger than before, carried more weight, had a per- 
ceptibly firmer grip on the vacillating minds of men. Some 
perhaps who had nourished doubts as to rubber doubted no 
longer. His marriage had turned the scale : rubber must be 
all right. 

He was grateful to her for marrying him; and through- 

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out this season his desire was to be seen with her by the 
greatest possible number of people. He liked the most 
public places: such as Hurlingham or Ranelagh, especially 
when flying men, a dozen massed bands, a Hottentot polo 
team, or some other “ Monster attraction,” gathered a vast 
concourse of well-dressed sight-seers. 

Sometimes on Saturday afternoons she went to fetch him 
from the offices in Arundel Street. 

“ Pick me up at three sharp. I’ll be ready and waiting 
for you.” 

But the waiting was done by her, and not by him. He 
was never ready, although theoretically the week’s work had 
been finished an hour ago. 

Most of the clerks had gone home; in outer rooms the 
blinds were drawn ; the American desks had been closed ; all 
the mechanism of the most modern business system had been 
set in order, packed up, and shut down for its short holiday. 
She heard the clicking of typewriters; and from some inner 
apartment came the sound of his voice in a steady, con- 
centrated flow. He was still hard at it, with two or three 
imprisoned assistants, dictating final letters to rapid young 
stenographers. 

The commissionaire used to put Edith in the place they 
called the small Board Room, where she could examine a 
sticky model of the physical contours of the Felicia estate, 
play with the dried samples of “ catch-crops,” try to lift 
sections of bark and squeeze cubes of rubber, or, walking 
about, immerse herself in the photographic views of Ceylon 
that hung upon the crimson walls. 

Then perhaps suddenly the hidden voice ceased, and her 
husband appeared, to pass like a whirlwind through the 
Board Room. 

“ My dearest Edie, I won’t detain you — not two min- 
utes.” 


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He had passed out through another door before she could 
tell him not to hurry. He was bellowing in the empty 
vestibules. 

“ I want that girl. Where’s Miss What’s-her-name ? ” 

The sound of the typewriting stopped with a jerk, and a 
female voice answered the dread chief. 

“ Miss Fielding? I’ll fetch her. She w T as here just 
now.” 

“ Send her to me. Send her to me. Quick, quick. I 
can’t stay here till midnight, to suit Miss Fielding’s con- 
venience. All right, Edie.” 

The whirlwind had passed again: he was back in his 
room. 

A young woman, with russet hair and large scared eyes, 
immediately followed him. Her flushed face was distorted 
by a large mouthful of the bun that she had been covertly 
munching. 

“ Got your pad ? Come on. Shut the door behind 
you.” 

Then the strong voice was heard again in steady dicta- 
tion wdth a few intervals of silence, and one or two cres- 
cendo passages when perhaps a blunder caused annoyance 
and irritation. After a long quarter of an hour the door 
opened. 

“ There, that’s all right. Don’t snivel. You’re rather 
green yet, but you’ll do very well, very well indeed — if 
you stick to it.” 

The young woman had been reduced to tears. She 
came out sniffing plaintively, and the note-book shook in 
her ink-stained fingers. Edith spoke to her gently and com- 
passionately. 

“ I am afraid you must be tired and wanting to get away.” 

“Oh, no. I — I don’t want to get away,*” and Miss 
Fielding blew her nose and wiped her eyes resolutely, 
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almost defiantly. She was startled by the apparition of a 
gracious, exquisitely attired stranger in a corner of the 
Board Room. Rushing to her employer’s call just now, 
she had seen no one. She stared at Edith with large ques- 
tioning eyes, and seemed as if, in her unadorned blouse and 
skirt, she resented the attention of anybody dressed so fine 
and looking so elegant and self-possessed. 

“ But I hope that my husband has not given you much 
more to do.” 

“Your husband! Is he your husband? Excuse me, but 
I mustn’t stop here, talking,” and Miss Fielding disap- 
peared. 

“ Now, then, Edie. Jump up. Come along. Dread- 
fully sorry to be late again.” 

From the outer room, where he linked his arm in that 
of his wife, he called back through an open door. 

“ Good night, Miss Fielding,” he shouted cheerily. “ No 
need to bustle yourself now, but stick to it. I’m very 
pleased with you.” 

“ But you didn’t show you were pleased, Jack. You 
made her cry.” 

“ Oh, that’s nothing. They all do it. They like it. 
No, that girl has a head on her shoulders. She is picking up 
the hang of things very nicely. Ah, here we are at last.” 

He gave a contented sigh, as he seated himself in the 
motor-car by the side of his wife. 

He spent a happy afternoon at Ranelagh; and was seen 
in his happiness by dozens of friends or acquaintances. 

“Who were those people we spoke to at tea?” asked 
Edith, on the way home. 

“Mr. and Mrs. Schwarzberger. I’m glad I got the 
chance of introducing them to you. We must invite them 
to dinner.” 

“ Yes, if you wish it.” 


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They had seemed an appalling old couple, the man, a 
heavy, squat vulgarian, with pendulous, mud-colored 
cheeks; and the woman, red, blowzy, in a preposterous babi- 
fied muslin frock and a shepherdess hat. 

“ Yes, I do wish it. The old chap would get rusty if 
we left him out in the cold.” 

“ What is Mr. Schwarzberger.” 

“ He is a vulcanite merchant. I suppose old Schwarz- 
berger consumes as much rubber as any one man in 
England.” 

“ Consumes? He looks as if he was made of it.” 

“Yes, doesn’t he?” Barnard laughed heartily. “I 
never thought of it before, but he really does. However, 
that’s all very well; but you and I mustn’t laugh at our 
bread and butter.” 

They gave many dinner-parties; and at first Edith, ar- 
ranging lists of guests, was surprised by the invitations 
that her husband told her to send out. In the past she had 
supposed that there were only two possible reasons for 
asking people to dinner: because you liked them, or be- 
cause you thought they would amuse you. Now she under- 
stood that there was a third and far stronger reason — 
business. 

“ I want you to ask a man I met at the Fishmongers’ 
Company, Colonel Gordon Bowyer. I don’t know his 
address. Let’s see if we can tree him in Who's Who . 
Yes, this must be the chap. Volunteer Colonel — partner 
— Vince & Bowyer, solicitors.” 

Only once or twice she demurred; suggesting that some- 
body should be asked on another night, that perhaps it might 
be wiser not to mix the representatives of different worlds 
too freely. 

“ But they like it. I thought that was the great secret; 
not all dukes or all tailors, don’t you know. I’ve heard 
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hostesses praised for getting people together whose interests 
lie in various walks of life.” 

Then perhaps, twirling the leaves of Who J s Who , he came 
upon another guest. 

“ Lady Oxenholme! You know her, don’t you? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Is she in London ? ” 

“ Yes, I think so.” 

“ Then invite her.” 

Edith said that, although she knew Lady Oxenholme, she 
did not know her well enough to ask her to dinner. 

“ Sure? Would she be huffed? ” 

“ No, but she’d think it so odd.” 

“ Oh, well, that’s a pity. I w T ould have liked to see her 
here, and I’ll tell you why. It’s on the cards that when 
Lord Oxenholme returns from Jamaica, they’ll send him as 
the next Governor of Ceylon.” 

It was all business, nothing else. It seemed to her that 
such a method of social intercourse struck at the foundations 
of enjoyment and relaxation; but she loyally furthered her 
husband’s wishes. Soon Lady Oxenholme appeared at 
Buckingham Gate — to meet Colonel Bowyer, Mr. Finne- 
more, who was the editor of a newspaper, two rubber 
directors, and a famous and ferocious Radical M. P. 

Edith observed the deference with which these and other 
of his friends treated her husband. When he spoke, they 
interrupted themselves to listen. They hung upon his light- 
est words, as if always expecting that something precious 
would accidentally fall from his lips. She thought of his 
boast at Bellagio. He was a man who could make money 
not only for himself but for other people. That was the 
secret clue to the alert, respectful watchfulness which she 
saw in the faces of all these business guests. 

“ What a head ! ” They paid her many compliments on 
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her good fortune in possessing such a life-partner. “ Napo- 
leonic! And he does it all so easily, and quietly. Nothing 
seems to disturb him.” 

Members of the family of the hostess were usually to be 
seen at these gatherings. Dignified dowagers, smiling 
debutantes, butterfly guardsmen, rallied to Edith’s family 
summons; and Papa, Mamma, or Agatha never refused to 
come and fill a gap. 

On the night when the vulcanite merchant and his elderly, 
kittenish wife honored the Barnards with their company, 
the family was represented by Lady Rathkeale, and a male 
cousin, that agreeable but indolent Mr. Cyril Stewart, who 
was still, it seemed, looking out for work and finding none to 
do. 

“ I wish,” said Lady Rathkeale, “ you would wave your 
fairy wand, and somehow put some money in Cyril’s 
pockets. Did I ever tell you how badly the war office 
behaved ? ” 

“ Yes,” said Barnard, “ you told me everything. I re- 
member perfectly; ” and he urged his mother-in-law not to 
refuse the iced asparagus. He was quick to extricate him- 
self from the peril of a family debate. 

“ Now you must not tempt me.” Lady Rathkeale always 
found her son-in-law the most delightfully attentive host. 
“You play upon my weakness for asparagus. Yes, I yield 
under protest. You know, I shall christen you the arch- 
enemy — because you make me disobey my doctor’s orders. 
What are you laughing at, Cyril? ” 

Cyril was tall and slim, with smooth dark hair plastered 
back from a low forehead; and his small brushed-up mus- 
tache was like his white tie — two neat sides and nothing 
in the middle. He had the pleasant, well-bred air of a man 
w T ho can make himself at home in any society; but, with his 
easy friendliness, there was perhaps a faintly traceable as- 
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sumption that might cause one to mistake self-composure 
for superciliousness. He laughed perhaps too readily, seem- 
ing amused at everything — except when he was talking 
cryptically to Edith about people not yet known to her 
husband. 

Barnard, plying Lady Rathkeale with dainties, glanced at 
out-of-work Cyril, and was not favorably impressed. A 
good-looking and no doubt amiable young fellow, but, to the 
acute eye of a social economist, promptly to be classified as 
a troublesome type. f He had pearls in his clean pique shirt, 
jeweled buttons in his white long-pointed waistcoat; his 
dress-suit came from a fashionable tailor; but he himself 
was essentially similar to the unemployed ragamuffins who 
march in processions with flags and money-boxes. Nothing 
to be done with him, except go on feeding him while the 
useless life lasts. 

The host had a few friendly words with this new guest 
after dinner; welcomed him heartily to Buckingham Gate, 
and said he was glad to make his acquaintance. 

“ And how do you think my wife is looking? ” 

“ Oh, Edith? Very well, I should say. But she is thin- 
ner, isn’t she? ” 

“ No, I thought she had rather put on flesh. Are you 
spending the summer in London ? ” 

“ Oh, I ? I drift about — never make any plans.” 

“ Hope to see you again, if you do stay.” 

“Yes, London’s not a bad place,” said Cyril, languidly, 
rather as if making an effort now to sustain conversation. 
“ But it’s an expensive place for idle people. Of course, 
if I had anything to do — well, that would occupy one’s 
time.” 

Barnard smiled good-naturedly. The old familiar cry of 
the useless mouths, the right to work claimed persistently 
by all who can’t work, and won’t work! 

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When the evening was over, he confessed to his wife that 
he had not succumbed to the well-known fascination of her 
cousin. 

“ He has greatly changed,” said Edith, thoughtfully. 
“ He isn’t so amusing as he used to be. I think he feels 
that he has been a failure. But he made himself agree- 
able to everybody — while we were upstairs ? ” 

“ Oh, yes. But I’ll tell you what. He has a deuced 
good opinion of himself — for a failure. It seemed to me 
that he thought it was rather a condescension on his part to 
smoke a cigarette and sip his champagne with old Schwarz- 
berger and the rest of us.” 

“ Oh, that was a fancy of yours. He was delighted to be 
here. He told me so.” 

“ Then that’s all right. I’m sure I tried to be friendly 
enough. And, look here, Edie. If he cares to, tell him 
to come down to Arundel Street any day, in the luncheon 
hour, and I’ll have a chat with him. One never knows 
when chances may turn up; and if I can do anything to set 
him on his legs, I’ll do it like a bird.” 

“ Oh, Jack, that is kind of you. I’ll write to him to- 
morrow morning.” 

She was pleased. Kindness to any member of the family 
always proved a sure road to her affectionate heart. 

About a week after this Mr. Stewart appeared at the 
offices and was received in Barnard’s private room. 

“ Edith insisted on my digging you out, but if you are 
engaged — ” 

“ Not a bit. Sit down,” and Barnard wheeled his chair 
from the big desk, and pointed to another chair. After 
the business custom, he put the visitor facing the light, and 
himself sat with his back to the windows. 

“ Well, now,” he went on briskly. “You are on the 
look-out for a job, and it has occurred to me that I might 
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be of assistance. As I told your cousin, chances sometimes 
turn up.” 

“ It’s very good of you, but I’m sure I don’t know why 
you should take so much trouble on my behalf.” 

“ Well,” said Barnard, genially, “ I am one of the family. 

I want to be considered as one of yourselves.” And he 
waited a moment for the young man to say something 
polite or cordial. “ That’s a natural ambition of a hus- 
band — to be adopted by his wife’s family. You’ll please 
me — and her — by dealing with me in that spirit.” 

“ But it’s too bad of Edith to bother you about all her 
needy relatives.” 

Barnard shrugged his shoulders good-humoredly. 

“ Nothing that Edith does can ever bother me. Now 
let us get at the sort of thing that would suit you.” And 
he asked the visitor half a dozen direct questions. 

“ Well,” said Cyril, after giving several negative replies, 

“ I think I had better tell you at once that I don’t feel 
much drawn toward the city. I know the city is a grand 
place, and all that; but I feel pretty sure I shouldn’t stick 
it long.” 

“ No?” 

“ Anyhow, I don’t feel that I should ever do much real 
good there.” 

Barnard had folded his hands; and, while he listened, 
was studying the aristocratic face and easy lounging attitude 
of his cousin by marriage. Something of contempt in his 
tone as he spoke of the city filled Barnard with contempt of 
a much stronger character. Not do much good there? No, 
nor anywhere else on the broad curves of this busy earth. 

He observed the smooth hair, so beautifully parted, show- j 
ing the white surface of the perfumed scalp; the Irish blue 
eyes, with dark eye-lashes, like' a girl’s, and a black line 
below the eyes, as if drawn by a cosmetic pencil; the small 
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mouth beneath the brushed-up mustache; the narrow, al- 
most pointed chin ; the spotless sun-burnt cheeks — here 
was an exquisite example of your highly-bred waster, the 
rider to hounds, the player of games. He would think 
himself brave; would not turn tail at a fence, though he 
knew he might get a cropper; would never shirk a row, 
though he was physically incompetent to hold his own in 
a rough-and-tumble; but, with all this futile swaggering 
pluck, he had not the courage to work for his daily bread. 
And his tone told one plainly that he believed himself in- 
nately superior to men, like Barnard, who had won money, 
position, and esteem by their successful industry. 

“Nothing in my line, eh? But now, where do your 
inclinations point? ” 

“ Well, you know, any kind of job under the Government 
— one of these temporary jobs at one of the public offices.” 

“I see. And what do you feel you could tackle best: 
where would past experience help you most ? ” 

Cyril laughed. 

“ Horses. That’s what I know most about. And, upon 
my word, I don’t think I know much about anything else. 
I’ve pretty well forgotten what I knew about land.” 

“ Horses ! ” And Barnard laughed, too. 

They talked till the luncheon hour was over and the 
footsteps of returning clerks were heard in the outer office. 
Then Barnard glanced at the clock on his table. 

The well-bred visitor was quick to interpret the hint. 

“ I say. I am robbing you of valuable time,” and he 
picked up his shining silk hat. 

Barnard ushered him to the top of the stairs. 

“ By the way.” He had turned after going down a 
few steps. “ Whatever it was, I couldn’t take it up till 
October. I have half promised a man to go to Norway 
with him next week.” 

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Barnard told his wife that their cousin, in so far as 
concerned work, was a hopeless case. “He doesn’t mean 
to do anything; and he doesn’t want to be helped. Of 
course, I’d do whatever I could, but, really, when I listened 
to his airified nonsense — ” 

“ But perhaps you didn’t quite understand him? He is a 
complex character,” said Edith, reflectively, “ and not easy 
to understand — least of all by you, Jack.” 

“ Why not ? ” 

“ Because he is a disappointed man ; and you have never 
known disappointment.” 

“ Well, there’s something in that, of course. I’ll keep 
him in my mind. I promised him that I would be on the 
look-out for any likely chance.” 


XII 


The full years were gliding, and the luck held. Fate 
seemed listening and waiting to give John Barnard whatever 
he wanted. 

He wanted a boy first — and the boy came. Then he 
said he wanted a girl — and Edith was born. They were 
splendidly healthy children; and he tasted the proud joy 
of a father, as he glanced at their round bodies and strong 
limbs. He felt the triumphant thrill which even a god 
may enjoy, as he looked down at these little people that 
had been fashioned in his image, the firm links in the endless 
chain of life. No snap here. 

Of a morning, before going to business, he used to rush 
up to the nurseries and take a peep at them. One day the 
boy was crawling on the floor, and the baby lay in a nurse’s 
lap. 

“ How old is she, nurse? ” 

“ She’ll be twelve months on the fifth, sir.” 

Next day, as it seemed, both children were seated at their 
breakfast table, two chubby faces and four bright eyes show- 
ing well above the white cloth. 

Time was flying: the years were too short. 

Before he realized that Jack had learned to talk, the pre- 
cocious boy was using long difficult words, and his sister 
was picking them up with startling rapidity. 

“ Now, nurse, keep an eye on your thermometers.” Some 
matter-of-fact sensible hints usually dropped from him at 
each nursery visit. “ This room is stuffy. Don’t be afraid 
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of fresh air. Give them all the air you can, indoors and out 
of doors.” 

“ Her ladyship gets so dreadfully anxious if they catch 
the least cold.” 

“ Yes, yes, do whatever her ladyship tells you. But 
don’t coddle them. Good-by, my darlings. Daddy is off 
to earn money for you; to buy you anything you fancy.” 

“ Buy me a train. Buy me another doll. Daddy, 
daddy, don’t go till we’ve said what you are to buy.” 

There came the treble music that he loved to hear; but 
he was gone. He loved it — the music, but he could not 
stand idle and listen to it. 

However, the children did not suffer any stint in trains 
and dolls. The contents of the nursery cupboards would 
have filled a toyshop. Merely to make room for new 
presents, the cupboards were periodically cleared of super- 
fluous stock, and vast boxes of uninjured playthings were 
dispatched to hospitals “ with the good wishes of John 
and Edith.” Their father gave them and his wife all that 
the heart of child or woman could desire, everything that 
he had to give — except one thing. 

Occasionally, in spite of all benefits, Edith Barnard 
seemed to be asking for the one thing he could not spare. 
Once or twice he felt for a little while an angry discon- 
tent when he thought that she was exacting in her demands 
for his time. If by extraordinary efforts he stole a few 
hours from the working week to give her and the bairns 
a treat, there was always the same question at the end of 
the treat. When could they do it again ? 

In the days when walking was still a new accomplishment 
of the small Edith, he tore himself from his offices, dashed 
home, and took them all in the car to Wimbledon common. 
Husband and wife surrendered themselves to parental 
ecstasies, as the child toddled across the grass, clinging for 
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support to her brother’s sturdy arm. “ Isn’t she too sweet 
for words?” and so on. Then they went scouring over 
the hills and through the valleys to an inn at Esher, where 
the young people ate a prodigious tea. Replete with fresh 
air, cakes, and infantile bliss, they slept all the way home 
in the car — one on Papa’s lap, one on Mamma’s — and 
above their curly heads the parents whispered. 

“ Jack, do you know, this has been the happiest after- 
noon I have spent this year. Oh, why can’t you give us 
more of such afternoons ? ” 

There was the unreasonable request that spoilt his 
pleasure. No one had enjoyed the treat so much as he; 
no one else had made a sacrifice to obtain it; then, surely, 
thanks should have been his reward, without the demand 
for further and impossible sacrifices. 

Sometimes it seemed as if she would not understand that 
absence does not necessarily imply neglect. 

He showed her how to fill her days with amusement; he 
devised engagements to keep her occupied ; he invented 
light tasks to be performed in his constituency — visits of 
the wife of our popular member, to bazaars, clubs, swim- 
ming baths, and recreation grounds; he persuaded her to 
ride, and bought her two perfect hacks ; he encouraged her to 
enjoy to the uttermost the fascinating society of her family. 
It was at his suggestion that she acted as chaperon to her 
sister Geraldine throughout that young lady’s first season. 
And it was on his pressing invitations that Geraldine used 
to come and stay in Buckingham Gate for a month at a 
time during the dull winter. 

And yet gayety, amusement, sisterly affection did not 
keep Edith uniformly cheerful. She wanted more: she 
wanted impossibilities. 

Now and then — not often — she conveyed to him the 
burden of her requirements. Then for a while — for a 
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very little while — he carried with him a sense of vague 
discomfort, of frustrated effort in the midst of success, 
of inexplicable, mysterious underlying failure at the mo- 
ment of his highest apparent prosperity. It was a weight 
upon his buoyant spirits which he hastened to shake off. 
Unconsciously he dreaded an analysis of these disturbing 
sensations, and perhaps dimly perceived that about him and 
before him there lay once more the struggle of opposing 
forces and irreconcilable needs — the conflict between a 
man’s own work and all the rest of his life. 

On one side is his work, into which he feels that he must 
throw all his thought and energy — nothing less than all, 
as it must prove eventually, will suffice. On the other side 
are love, wife, children, home, sympathies, and friendship. 
To give to one is to rob the other. 

As in the old days, when thinking of his mother and the 
home that he had been compelled to desert, he heard the 
faint calls and felt the dragging pull. 

Something to be abandoned, if something is to be won ? 
Long since he had made his choice; and now he must hold 
more resolutely than ever to the mapped course. Besides, 
he was no longer a free agent : he was working not for him- 
self, but for Edith and her children. 

He shook off the dull cloud of half-formed thoughts; and 
immediately his spirits rose, and he felt easy and com- 
fortable. In a few days all memory of the passing depres- 
sion had completely faded. 

“ When we go away this summer, Jack, will you be able 
to come, too? ” 

It had been arranged that a furnished house somewhere 
near the sea should be taken for July and August. 

“ I hope to run down for week-ends.” 

“Only for week-ends? I shall feel it a dreadful re- 
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sponsibility — being alone with the children. I am nervous 
about them here — but with cliffs for them to fall over — 
and suppose they get ill — ” 

“ They won’t be ill. They are never ill. And you’ll 
have all the nurses and servants to help you take care of 
them — and Geraldine. And, look here, why don’t you 
persuade the Roscreas to keep you company, too ? ” 

“ Yes, I might do that. Lucy is so capable. But, Jack, 
it’s your company that I should like best.” 

“ If I was a rich idle man, I would be with you always.” 

She had not spoken reproachfully, and he replied easily 
and cheerfully. 

“You know that, don’t you, Edith? I am never so 
happy as when I am with you.” 

And this was strictly true — although it was a happiness 
in which he could rarely indulge. She was the one loved 
companion ; but he could not afford the companionship. 

Just now he was working harder than ever — “double 
tides,” as he called it. With the Liberal party still in 
Opposition, there were numerous opportunities of show- 
ing his value and increasing his political weight. Through- 
out this session he made himself conspicuous in debate. He 
was afraid of no one; things that venerable leaders may 
like to hear said, but don’t care to say themselves, were 
said boldly by him; he could be relied on as a bull-dog 
orator whom you might confidently let loose among the 
hostile lions. If he did not quite pull a lion down for 
you, at least he never got dangerously mauled. Next day 
he was straining at the chain, full of fight, eager to go for 
the lions again. 

Newspapers reported him more and more fully; his pho- 
tograph began to appear in shop-windows; his name was 
becoming a familiar sound to the public. He was certain 
now that the third stage of his career would be as successful 
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as the two previous stages. He had been assured that when 
the Liberals returned to power he would be given minor 
office; and then it would be plain sailing to Cabinet rank. 
That is to say, plain sailing, if he could wind up his affairs 
and cut himself free from business in time. As of course 
he knew, there can be no place in the Ministry for even the 
most highly esteemed company-promoter, until he has quite 
done with prospectuses, advertisements, and general meet- 
ings of shareholders. 

With regard to money-making, his ambition had of late 
increased. Life yearly becomes more expensive ; when a man 
is founding a family, he must look far ahead; revenues 
sufficient for the proper state of himself and his wife might 
be short measure for a dowager widow, for John second 
Baron and his honorable brothers and sisters; he wanted 
now to come out of his second stage with half instead of a 
quarter of a million. He calculated the probable exist- 
ence of the present Government. Say four years at least! 
Could he, by increased pressure and more rapidly fruitful 
energy, synchronize these two events — the culmination of 
his business career and the collapse of the Unionist Min- 
istry ? 

Walking home long after dawn, he used to pause be- 
neath the green trees of St. James’ Park, while the fresh 
morning breeze cooled his heated brow and drove from his 
lungs the dusty, oppressive sensations caused by the abomi- 
nable atmosphere of Westminster. 

The bright sunlight was gilding the cornice of his house, 
but behind the drawn blinds all his people still slept deeply. 
He came softly into his wife’s room, moved slowly and 
carefully through the gray dusk, and stood looking down 
at the sweet unconscious face and the masses of dark hair 
that seemed like a shadow on the white pillow. Stooping 
cautiously before he lay down by her side, he very lightly 
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touched her forehead with his lips. But, at the light 
touch, she woke with a startled cry. 

“Jack,” she whispered, “is it very late? You — you 
frightened me. I was dreaming a horrible dream.” 

“ Go to sleep, my darling. I’m sorry I roused you.” 

She could dream, and yet lie silent and motionless. With 
her, the dream seemed to be a fancy wafted into the mind 
from a distance; and it held her spell-bound, powerless. 
With him, the dream seemed to be an automatic operation 
of the brain, waves of energy continuing to vibrate after 
the originating impulses had ceased; and throughout the 
dream a reflex activity of nerves and muscles w T as main- 
tained. He moved his arms; he writhed, he jerked his legs; 
he muttered in a running babble of half-articulated words. 
Perhaps he was still debating, hurling defiance at the Gov- 
ernment — continuing the labor of the last eight hours. 
But he remembered nothing afterwards. Even now he 
found difficulty in believing that he was really a persistent 
dreamer. 

“ Anyhow, I must break myself of the habit. I mustn’t 
disturb you like this.” 

Edith had confessed to him that, on this night when he 
woke her with a kiss, he had rendered it impossible for her 
to sleep again. 

Then, for the remainder of the session, he used the bed 
in his dressing-room. The new domestic arrangement gave 
her unbroken nights and allowed him a wider freedom. 
When he came home from the House of Commons he could, 
if he pleased, work for an hour or two before going up- 
stairs. There was no one now to inquire what the clock 
said, or to reproach him for further Curtailing his brief 
hours of repose. 

In October, when Edith and the children returned from 
the country, Parliament was again sitting; and the autumn 
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session provided the reason for her husband’s continued oc- 
cupation of his own apartment. When the House rose, 
other trivial but sufficient reasons temporarily prevented 
any change. 

“ Edie,” said Barnard, jokingly, “ you and I are getting 
too fashionable — a husband and a wife a la mode . I don’t 
like it.” 

Then, when little John was wrestling with the mildest 
possible attack of measles, his too anxious mother, wishing to 
be close at hand by night as well as day, moved upstairs to 
a small room near the nursery with a single bed in it. And 
when sturdy Master John had been certified as convales- 
cent, and all cause for anxiety was happily removed, his 
mother remained on the nursery floor. Her room was at 
the back of the house, which was quieter than the front of 
the house; one slept better there in the morning; one did 
not hear the traffic of the street or the bugles at the bar- 
racks. The room was certainly small; but it was just big 
enough for one. 

Barnard, passing the open door of the commodious room 
that they had shared for so long, was surprised to see dust 
sheets over the wide bed and tall wardrobes. In its aspect 
of dismantlement, the room seemed unfamiliar, cold, and 
ugly. The silver and glass had gone, the framed photo- 
graphs had gone, all the charm and prettiness had gone: it 
made one uncomfortable to look at the room. Edith told 
him the reason of its desertion, and explained about the 
traffic and the bugles. 

“ Edie,” he said, doubtfully, “ this is altogether too modern 
and up-to-date. It is time we got back to old-fashioned 
ways.” 

He did not like the new state of domestic affairs — that 
is, when he thought of it. He remembered the words of 
the marriage service — nothing fashionable about them! 
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Unquestionably the bond should not be thus relaxed. But 
when — once or twice — he attempted to draw the bond 
close again, there was always some reason that for the mo- 
ment frustrated the attempt. 

“ Very well, Edie. . . . But I’ll tell you what it is, 

my dear,” and he laughed good-humoredly. “ Directly I am 
at leisure, you and I must go away on a second honey- 
moon.” 

But the honey-moon never came, and he was too busy to 
be worried by a thought of its postponement. 


XIII 


Every year the regard and consideration in which he was 
held by his wife’s family had been increasing. He was so 
good-natured, so light-hearted, and so useful. Lady Rath- 
keale called him her fairy son-in-law; and Lord Rathkeale 
often said, “ Upon my word, I don’t know what we should 
do without that kind fellow. We seem to depend on him 
more and more.” By appointing Lord Rathkeale a director 
of one of his companies and forcing him to plunge in rubber 
shares, he had provided the old boy with two novel and de- 
lightful experiences — the pleasure of earning a little money, 
and of making a lot of money. His lordship was a richer 
man by twenty thousand pounds than when he stood in 
church and gave his daughter away. 

Moreover, Mr. Barnard had advised him throughout the 
tedious negotiations for the sale of his Irish estates, and it 
seemed now likely that the thing would go through at last 
— that the nation would not only buy, but pay. He had 
also been useful to the learned Roscrea. He had employed 
his parliamentary influence for Brian — had done a job, 
procured a Home Office post for this clever young civil 
servant, and saved him from banishment to India. Again 
and again he had been useful to Agatha and Geraldine, to 
their aunts, and to their cousins. Indeed, there was scarce 
a member of the family to whom he had not done substan- 
tial service, except impracticable Cyril. But Mr. Stewart had 
not really allowed opportunities for service. He was always 
wandering about the Continent; he had not shown himself 
three times in Buckingham Gate, and had never called 
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again at the Arundel Street offices. Out of sight is out of 
mind. 

At family funerals, at times of grief, sickness, trouble, 
John Barnard unfailingly proved the support and guide of 
his wife’s relatives; and all leaned upon him during their 
difficult hours. He was strong, kind, quick to understand; 
and, above all, business-like. That, perhaps, best described 
his especial merit. To him the trouble, whatever it was, 
presented itself as a piece of unexpected business to which it 
was his duty to attend at once. 

In fact, he performed his kindly part without real feeling 
— or with rare flashes of feeling — mechanically; and his 
real anxiety was to polish off the task and get on to some- 
thing else. Nevertheless, he did it so well that neither he 
nor anybody else detected the absence of real sympathy. 

Such an unexpected task confronted him suddenly, one 
December evening, when he came home before dinner and 
found his wife in tears. 

“ What’s the matter with you, Edie? ” 

“ Everything. I am utterly miserable.” 

“Well, that’s comprehensive, at any rate.” 

His head was full of schemes; his bag was full of papers; 
he had intended to snatch some food, and enjoy a good 
evening’s work; but he immediately tackled the new job. 
It was urgent and pressing: it must be cleared out of the 
way before he could resume routine labors. 

“ Now tell me all about it. Let’s have a good talk.” 

He turned on more electric light, threw a couple of logs 
upon the smouldering coals, and walked to and fro with his 
hands behind his back. They were in his study or library, 
a room she rarely entered ; and he had been surprised to see 
her sitting crouched by the dying fire. 

“ Well, my dear? ” 

“ I was waiting for you. I wanted to ask you to help 

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me — I — I sometimes think I am going out of my mind ; ” 
and she sobbed convulsively. 

“Bosh! What nonsense is this?” He laid his hand on 
her shoulder ; and spoke cheerfully, but very gently. “ What 
has upset you ? ” 

“ Oh, I don’t know — the dark long days — the endless 
weariness.” 

“ Well, but this weather will soon change. I never re- 
member so much fog — and I own it’s very depressing.” 

“It’s like my life. No break — no light — ” And she 
sobbed so violently that her words were stifled. 

He patted her shoulder until the storm of distress had 
almost ceased, and then he spoke gravely and soothingly. 

“ Edie, my dear Edie, don’t abandon yourself to this sort 
of nervous hysterical excitement.” 

“Yes, that’s what I’m afraid of — my nerves going — 
and my mind going next.” 

“ But your nerves are all right. Except for your being 
rather fidgety about the children — and that’s quite natural 
and usual — I have never observed anything to suggest — ” 

“We are all of us overstrung. Look at Agatha. Sup- 
pose I get like her.” 

He laughed, gave her shoulder another friendly pat, and 
then walked about the room again. 

“Agatha! What a notion! Dismiss such silly ideas.” 

“ Agatha didn’t get ill all at once. She was like me — 
It came from having nothing to do and nothing to think of.” 

“Your poor sister — to begin with — is an old maid, 
with few duties or occupations. But you have plenty to 
think of — your children, your husband, your home.” 

“ I am no use to my children. My husband doesn’t want 
me. My home is my prison.” 

And then came, with more sobbing, a burst of most un- 
reasonable reproaches. 


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11 You have taken me from those I loved — you have 
forced me back upon myself, and left me to sink down, 
down, to all that I dreaded — perpetual solitude, perpetual 
sadness.” 

He turned a calm and firm face to this preposterous at- 
tack ; and his voice, when he spoke, was as gentle as before. 

“ My dearest girl, I see that emotion has destroyed your 
logical faculties, or really you would not say such things.” 

“ But they are true.” 

“ No, honestly, very far from the truth. How have I 
doomed you to solitude? Don’t I always tell you to see 
your friends — to have them here? You know very well 
that I can’t be continually dancing attendance upon you. 
But that was a part of our bargain.” 

And he reminded her of talks before their marriage, when 
he had plainly warned her that he was a working man — a 
hard-working man — an extremely hard-working man. 

“ A bargain,” she cried, “ has two sides. I have kept my 
part — but you — you have been false to yours.” 

“ Edie ! I don’t recognize this storming lady. These 
tantrums are quite unworthy of you.” 

“ What have you done to help me ? What have you given 
me in exchange for what I gave you ? ” 

“ Well, I think I have given you as much as you would 
have got from most men.” 

“ I should have got love — the love that lasts.” 

“ And mine,” he said firmly, “ has lasted — will last — 
while my life lasts.” 

Suddenly she began to dry her eyes, and became quiet. 
She looked up at him apprehensively and appealingly; and 
the sight of her piteous, tear-stained face pained him and dis- 
turbed him. 

“ Yes,” she said, “ you have been very good. I — I’m 
sorry I spoke so foolishly.” 


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“Oh, that’s of no consequence. You know, it’s just as 
well to let off steam now and then. . . . There’s noth- 

ing like a long talk — thrash things out — get to the bot- 
tom of what is worrying one.” 

“ Jack, I didn’t mean half of it — not a tenth part of it — 
none of it.” 

“ No, don’t say that. Give me all your thoughts. . . . 

But excuse me one moment.” 

All this was taking time. He would not grudge the time 
now, if forty-eight hours were required. He had begun the 
job: he must finish it. 

He rang an electric bell, and went out into the hall to 
meet the servant. It was neither necessary nor desirable 
to allow servants to see their mistress with red-rimmed 
eyes, swollen nose, and trembling lips. 

“ Tell them to keep back dinner till nine o’clock.” 

Then he returned to the library, drew another chair to 
the fireside, and sat down by his wife. 

“ I was saying — let us get to the bottom of the trouble.” 

“ Jack, it’s nothing. But it is true I feel ill, run down — 
wretchedly low-spirited.” 

“ Then let us consider what I can do. Whatever I can 
do, I will do.” 

“ No, you couldn’t do anything. It’s all in myself, Jack. 
It’s just the effect of weather upon health. I am ashamed 
of being so easily depressed.” 

“ Have you consulted Dr. Richards? ” 

“ No. He’d say I was all right.” 

“ He might give you a tonic. I think it’s very likely that 
you want some sort of medicine; ” and he asked a few simple 
but very sensible questions: 

“ Do you think you are losing weight? ... Is your 
appetite what it should be? . . . Are you digesting 

your food? 


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“ You know, Edie, indigestion is frequently the cause of 
low spirits. Mental comfort is extraordinarily dependent 
on bodily comfort. That’s a fact one is apt to lose sight of. 
Yet it stands to reason that if one is carrying about masses 
of undigested food, one cannot — ” 

But she interrupted him with a further assurance that her 
state of mind was due to want of sunshine and other in- 
spiriting agencies, and not caused by bodily derangements. 

“ Will you let me take you to a specialist? ” 

“ No, no. I promise you, Jack, that you shan’t hear me 
complaining again. When the spring comes I shall recover 
my spirits.” 

“ But, meanwhile, what can I do to help you? ” 

“ Nothing.” 

She got up from her chair, and stared down at the bright 
flames that leaped so gayly from the crackling logs. 

“ I’ll do anything in my power, Edie,” and he repeated 
what he had said before. “ Whatever I can do, I will do.” 

She turned her head, and looked at him for a moment; 
and then, without speaking, looked again at the tongues of 
fire. 

“ Ask me anything that comes into your mind. Don’t 
hesitate to tell me.” 

But she did hesitate. She seemed to be pondering deeply, 
to be seeking for thoughts as well as words. After a long 
pause, she turned to him; and the words came in a quick, 
breathless whisper: 

“Yes, take me away from London — you and I together, 
and quite alone.” 

“ Do you mean now — at once ? ” 

“Yes. Manage it, somehow, Jack. You said we should 
go away. Then let us go now — right away from every- 
one — hundreds of miles away — where we can begin all 
over again.” 


11 


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“ The second honey-moon ! Edith, my darling girl — if 
only I could. But how can I? Think for a moment. 
How can I possibly leave things to take care of themselves 
— without notice — without preparation? ” 

“ No. I was afraid it would be impossible.” 

“ Absolutely impossible. But in two months, perhaps ! 
Then, I don’t say but I might manage it.” 

“ You told me to ask you. But I knew you wouldn’t be 
able to do it.” 

“ Besides, did you mean that we were to leave the chil- 
dren — both of us to be away together, and the children left 
here?” 

“ No, I suppose that wouldn’t be right.” 

“ But if I stay here on guard, I don’t see why you shouldn’t 
go away — say, to the South of France, where you’d escape 
all the fog and cold.” 

“ Then let me do that.” 

“ But how will you like' leaving the children ? ” 

“ I shan’t like it — but I’m no use to them. They’d get 
on better — yes, better without me.” 

“ But you may fret for them — feel homesick and come 
tearing back to find if Edith is sneezing or Johnnie cough- 
ing. Would you like to take them with you? ” 

“ No,” she said thoughtfully. “ If the change is to do 
me any real good, I ought to be alone.” 

“ Of course you can’t go quite alone. We should have 
to find some suitable companion — but that would be very 
easy. Lucy Roscrea perhaps might be willing to accom- 
pany you. Would you like her?” 

“Yes, more than anyone. She is so restful. But any 
quiet person who wasn’t wanting to rush about would do 
very well. I want to be quiet — just to sit in the sun and 
rest.” 

And she explained that, dearly as she loved her little 
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ones, their presence would deprive her of all peace. Her 
love for them was a constant strain upon her nerves. Un- 
reasoning fear marred all her joy. As they grew older, 
she grew more nervous. The knowledge that, though she 
was far away, they were thriving, would, she believed, tend 
to steady her nerves. She would come back stronger, bet- 
ter able to control her apprehensions, a no less loving, but a 
more capable mother than she had been. 

“ Very well, then, we’ll consider that settled. I’ll stay 
here, on guard. And I’ll come out to you in March or 
April, and bring you home.” 

They dined together; and throughout the meal her spirits 
were rising. The thought of a swift escape from the fogs 
and wretchedness of the London winter seemed already to 
have dissipated her mental gloom. 

“You are very good to me, Jack. You are always 
good.’” 

He spent the whole evening with her; and they chatted 
pleasantly and comfortably, about the children, her family, 
and herself. It seemed that they had been drawn nearer 
together, that they were working back to the hopeful, cheer- 
ing intercourse of their engagement, when everything lay 
before them and nothing behind them. To-night the bond 
was closer than it had been for years. 

“ There,” he said gayly, at eleven o’clock, when she went 
upstairs, “ you see what comes of having a good, long talk. 
There’s only one thing to do when you are worried — go 
straight to the base of the trouble, and tackle it firmly.” 

Yet, though he spoke so cheerfully, he gave a weary sigh 
when the door had closed behind her and he stood alone, fac- 
ing the piles of papers on his table. He did not grudge the 
time spent to make her happy again. But he had once more 
that curious oppressive sense of failure in success, of mys- 
teriously, fatally balked aim at the moment when he felt his 
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strength and skill to be greater and higher than they had 
ever been till now. 

He shook himself, swept away every thought that was 
not lucid and definite, cleared his mind for business; then 
sat down to his postponed labor, and worked till four A. M. 

Next day he again took up the other, the domestic task, 
and fairly finished it. 

When he came' home, it was done. Everything was ar- 
ranged. Lady Rathkeale could not go abroad, Lady Ros- 
crea could not go, none of the family could go ; but a valued 
family friend could and would go. That nice Mrs. Clifton 
Hammond, as Edith agreed, was just the person — an old 
dear. Very well then, the old dear and her maid, with 
Edith and the faithful Jefferson, were to start for Cannes 
by the train-de-luxe to-morrow evening. Rooms at the 
quiet, dignified, and excellently managed Hotel des Roisen 
Exile had been engaged for them. 


XIV 


Certainly the presence of Edith had not to any con- 
siderable extent modified the course or programme of the 
days, and yet her absence brought coldness and a dullness 
in the color of his life. If truly he did not miss her, 
he missed the satisfaction of knowing that she was near 
him, within reach, as the graceful presiding genius of the 
home. 

But she was happy — that was the great thing: effort 
expended producing tangible result. The change of air and 
scene was working wonders: his wife said that she was be- 
coming sun-burnt and fat, and that she felt ever so much 
better. Mrs. Clifton Hammond sent a similar report: 
“ Edith’s face has lost that sad pinched look which made her 
appear quite an invalid. She will soon be quite herself 
again.” 

With his own hand he wrote to Edith in reply: 

“ As you may suppose, I miss you exceedingly. But stay 
away as long as necessary. Get really strong and really 
well; and then come back to me with health in your pretty 
face, and love in your kind heart.” 

The pressure of business naturally prevented him from 
employing his own hand too freely upon this or any other 
correspondence; but he had with all matters a characteristic 
way of obtaining big effects in surprisingly little time. 

He used to send out for the week’s illustrated journals — 
“ All the sixpennies — and any shilling double numbers you 
can get.” 

Perhaps these attractive sheets lay on his desk untouched 
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for two or three days; but at last he snatched a chance of 
tackling them. 

He would open the pages at random, glance at a picture, 
and write above it with astounding rapidity, “ What do you 
think of this? J. B.” If there was anything to take hold 
of in the picture, he struck a personal note: as, for instance, 
above the portrait of a little princess he wrote, “ Does this 
remind you of Edith? ” If it was merely a picture of hats 
or frocks, he scrawled, “ Fashions! Hideous! Aren’t they? 
J. B.” And he left the pages open — not a moment wasted. 

“ There,” he said to his clerk or his secretary ; “ blot 
these — and pack as before — to Lady Edith. You have 
the address. Look sharp. Take them off the desk.” 

Time consumed in the whole operation, less than two and 
a half minutes. Yet what an effect! As if he had been 
hunting the town to find what might interest or amuse her, 
as if he had been collecting for her and thinking about her 
throughout the week! 

“ The illustrated papers,” wrote Edith, “ are greatly ap- 
preciated. It is too good of you to take so much trouble. 
. . . If you do not mind, I should like to stay here till 

the end of April. And then I hope you will be able to 
fetch me.” 

Once or twice he sent her a full and extensive letter ; but 
then it was typewritten and not manuscript. He dictated, 
and Miss Fielding took it down at the rate of 200 to the 
minute. Then it came before him a few hours later in its 
typed form ; and he signed it, together with a batch of busi- 
ness communications. 

Miss Fielding was the girl who used, during her novitiate, 
to shed tears because of his brusqueness and sternness. She 
never wept now. She had stuck to it; and her promotion 
had been swift and sure to the highest rank in the offices. 
There was no one now at Arundel Street so useful and re- 
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sponsible: no one who seemed so thoroughly to understand 
the ways of the dread chief, or to grasp the hang of the most 
complicated things with such a quick intuition. 

One evening towards the end of March Miss Fielding 
and her employer were working late, in order to make a 
clean sweep of arrears and start fair again next day. 

“ Now,” said Mr. Barnard, getting up from his chair and 
stretching himself. “ Are we through? Is that all? ” 

“ Yes, I think that is everything.” 

“What’s the time? Is that clock right?” 

“Yes,” said Miss Fielding. “Twenty minutes past 
seven.” 

“ Look here. Could you give me another quarter of an 
hour? ” 

“ Oh, certainly.” And Miss Fielding suppressed a yawn, 
and picked up her notebook. 

“Good! Then I’ll write to my wife.” 

He came back to his desk, took two or three letters from 
a drawer, and spread them out before him. 

“Now. Are you ready ? ” 

“ Yes; ” and Miss Fielding sat with a poised pencil. 

“ * My own dearest girl, it is three weeks since I sent you 
one of my chatter-box letters, and it is nearly as long since 
I heard from you.’ . . . 

“Stop. . . . Yes, this is her last — date, February 

the twentieth. More than three weeks! More than a 
month! But I suppose she has written to her mother and 
the others. . . . ‘I am rather hurt.’ ... Go on. 

I’m dictating.” 

“ ‘ I am rather hurt,’ ” echoed Miss Fielding. 

“ ‘ Rather hurt by this neglect, and you supply me with no 
account of your doings.’ . . . Stop. I must look 

through her letters.” 

He made nothing of Miss Fielding — a machine to start 

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or stop without ceremony. Compliments or apologies were 
no more required than when you turn a handle or move a 
lever. But he rather liked her, and was jolly and familiar 
in his way of talking to her when for a moment pressure 
could be relaxed. 

“ She has had to sack her maid ! ” 

He was reading a brief note, written by Edith five weeks 
ago. Its contents had made no impression on his mem- 
ory. 

“ * I dare say you will be surprised to hear that I have 
been obliged to get rid of Jefferson. For a long time 
she has been very unsatisfactory, and inclined to be im- 
pudent as well as exacting; so I decided that it was 
best to part with her. Mrs. Hammond’s maid man- 
ages all right for both of us, so do not send anyone out 
to me.’ 

“ I should have remembered, if she had told me she 
wanted another maid. But just think what an ass that 
woman has been to forfeit such a place. They say, hotel 
life spoils the best servants. It’s these confounded courier 
fellows make love to ’em, and they get too big for their boots. 
I had to drop on the lazy slut when we were in Italy. 
Go on. 

“ ‘ You were quite right to send Jefferson about her busi- 
ness. Never stand nonsense. It never pays.’ . . . 

Wait.” 

He was reading another letter. 

“ ‘ Cyril is here, en passant for Monte Carlo ; and he 
took us out to luncheon at the Golf Club. He offered 
to teach me golf, but as he confessed that it takes years 
to learn properly, I refused to begin. I wish you 
played golf. I believe it would be good for you, and 
take your mind off the strain almost better than any- 
thing.’ 


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“ Now then. Begin. ‘ If you see Cyril Stewart 
again — ’ ” 

“ How is the name spelled? S-t-u-a-r-t? ” 

“ I’m not sure. No, he wouldn’t be in Who's Who. He 
has never done anything in his life — a cousin of my wife’s. 
We could tree him in the Peerage." 

“Shall I look?” 

“No, don’t bother. Scratch out the surname. Now, 
what have you got?” 

“ ‘ If you see Cyril again.’ ” 

“ No. Scratch that out. I don’t call the chap by his 
Christian name to his face, so I don’t know why I should 
do so behind his back. Begin — ‘ If you can get an oppor- 
tunity of seeing your cousin Cyril, tell him that I have not 
forgotten him, although such a long time has elapsed. Say 
I shall be glad if he will look me up as soon as he is back in 
London. Before the Session is over there may be a chance 
of something turning up that would exactly suit him. This 
is not an empty politeness, but a solid fact.’ . . . Got 

that?” 

“ ‘Solid fact.’ ” 

“ ‘ As you will have heard from Lady Rathkeale and Ger- 
aldine, the children are flourishing. Your mother and sis- 
ter have been very attentive, coming to the house two or 
three times a week. Your father is cock-a-hoop about the 
Irish sale. I see him at our Board meetings. I gave him 
a resolution to move at the last meeting; and when the time 
came and I looked toward him, I found that he had fallen 
asleep. He does not grow younger.’ ” 

“ Not quite so fast, please. ... * Asleep.’ ” 

“ ‘ He does not grow younger. . . . Last, and of 

course least, myself.’ . . . Note of interrogation. Un- 

derline myself. Put three notes of exclamation — not in- 
terrogation. ‘Myself!’” 

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“ 4 Myself! ’ ” 

“ 1 Everything goes as well as I could wish, and even better 
than I expected. Monday night I spoke on the House to 
House Inquiry Bill. I let them have it straight from the 
shoulder, and I think every word told. Two of the big- 
wigs were very complimentary when I sat down. I doubt 
if I was speaking thirty minutes; but The Times gave me 
two columns, almost verbatim, and also the first paragraph 
of their leader on the debate. It may amuse you to know 
that I was in five different parts of The Times that morn- 
ing — Leader, Parliamentary report, City article, Fashion- 
able news, and the Advertisement form. The Society entry 
was a dinner at the Inner Temple, where Ventnor and I 
responded for Lords and Commons. I still count on join- 
ing you, say April 27th or 28th. Take care of yourself, 
and send a nice long budget of news to your de- 
voted. . . 

“ There. That's off my mind. Thank you, Miss Field- 
ing. I really am much obliged to you. Let me have it for 
signature to-morrow. You know the address. Good night.” 

He put his head in at the door again, while Miss Field- 
ing was gathering together such papers as remained in her 
charge. 

“ I’m going to Buckingham Gate and shall be there for 
the next hour. If Saunders rings me up before you have 
left, send the message through.” 


XV 


He was surprised to find his house full of light instead of 
darkness. Although the servants were not expecting their 
master, all the lamps in the hall and on the staircase were 
wastefully burning. At the sound of his footstep, the butler 
hurried from the dining-room. 

“ Her ladyship has arrived, sir.” 

“ Whom do you mean ? Lady Rathkeale ? ” 

“ No, sir. Lady Edith.” 

“ Edie ! ” His voice rang through the hall, loudly and 
gladly. “Edie! Edie!” 

She was in the library, still wearing her hat and veil and 
traveling cloak. She had been here waiting for him, while 
he was writing to her: the graceful presiding spirit of his 
home was here, to gladden his eyes and warm his heart, when 
he thought that a thousand miles of sea and land separated 
them. 

“ Edie, my dearest girl.” 

He gave her no time to lift her veil, but imprinted a 
dozen eager kisses upon the spotted gauze. He had thrown 
his strong arms round her, and was squeezing her tight 
to his breast. The vigor of the embrace left her breathless 
when he released her. 

“ But what has brought you back like this, without a word 
of warning? ” 

And he poured out his questions so rapidly that she could 
scarcely answer half of them. 

“ Are you well? Nothing wrong? ” 

“ No, Jack, nothing wrong.” 

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“ But you felt you were going to fall ill? ” 

“ No, not the least. I am quite well ; quite myself 
again.” 

“ Then explain the miracle. What has brought you 
home ? ” 

“ I wanted to be home again.” 

“ But did you take alarm about the children? They 
never were fitter in their lives.” 

“ Yes, I know.” 

“ Have you seen them? ” 4 

“Yes. They seem the picture of health.” 

“ When did you get here? ” 

“ An hour ago.” 

His face was glowing with pleasure. Perhaps he realized 
now for the first time how much of the brightness of his 
life she had taken away with her. 

“ Then if it wasn’t some foolish scare about the children, 
what was it, Edie?” 

“ I think it was what you said would happen. Suddenly, 
I got homesick. I felt that I couldn’t stay away any 
longer.” 

“From them? Or dare I think from me, too?” 

“ Yes, from you, too.” 

“ Edie, my own girl.” And he gave her another vigorous 
hug. “ But why didn’t you write and tell me the good 
news? ” 

“ I made up my mind suddenly — really only yesterday 
morning.” 

“ But Mrs. Hammond? How did she like being dragged 
away at a moment’s notice ? ” 

“ I left her out there. I felt I couldn’t ask her to give 
up her plans on my account.” 

“ Then you came quite alone? ” 

“ Yes.” 


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I don’t like the idea of your traveling all by yourself, 
without even a maid.” 

“ I came right through in the same carriage from Cannes 
to Calais.” 

“ Why didn’t you telegraph? ” 

“ There was no time for anything. I only just caught the 
afternoon train.” 

“ But Mrs. Hammond could have telegraphed to me.” 

“Jack! Are you angry with me for coming?” 

“ Edie ! I am simply overjoyed.” 

“ This was really why I didn’t telegraph. I wanted to 
come. I had made up my mind, and I thought if I told 
you, that then you would telegraph to say I had better re- 
main the full time — as we arranged.” 

“ Perhaps I should have. Then I’m glad you didn’t give 
me a chance.” 

“ Are you, Jack? ” 

“Indeed, I am. Don’t I show it? But I would have 
liked to meet you at the station. Which was it?” 

“ Victoria.” 

“And there was no one to meet my stately Edith? No 
triumphal car? Nothing? She just had to ride in a cab, 
like a nobody. I don’t at all like such a humble, unheralded 
home-coming.” 

“ Then I am sorry I did not telegraph ! ” and to his sur- 
prise and distress, she burst into tears. 

“ Edie, my darling girl. I was only chaffing. You are 
back; you are home. That’s all I care about.” 

“ Then don’t question me. Don’t scold me.” 

His heart was full of gladness; the sight of her was a 
joy to his eyes; the sound of her voice, after its long si- 
lence, thrilled and charmed him; and yet in the hour of 
welcome he had made her cry. She was weeping before she 
went away; and now, no sooner had she returned than she 
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wept once more. The unfortunate result of his want of 
tact made him contrite and ashamed. 

“ Edie, don’t. On my honor, I can’t find words to tell 
you how glad I am. Believe me, I was only chaffing — 
stupid, ill-timed chaff. The last thing in my mind was to be 
bearish or unkind, or to scold you.” 

He gently compelled her to take off her veil, and tenderly 
helped her to wipe away the tears. 

“ There, that’s better. I expect you are tired and shaky 
after the journey.” 

“ Yes, I am tired. But otherwise I am really strong and 
well again, quite my old self again.” 

“ Let me have a good look at you.” 

“No, let me first make myself presentable. I know I am 
dusty and horrid. Look at me at dinner.” 

“ Nonsense. I can’t wait. Turn to the light.” And he 
looked at the pale face, anxiously and affectionately. “ But 
where’s the sun-burn? Edie, my dear girl, you haven’t 
brought back the plump, sun-burnt cheeks that I hoped to 
see.” 

“ Haven’t I? But I’m very well, really and truly. Only 
rather tired.” 

“ Yes, yes. It is fatigue that has made you pale again.” 

“ Now let me go upstairs to change my things ! ” and she 
disengaged her hands from his, and went toward the door. 

“ Are they getting your room ready? Have you told the 
servants? ” 

“ Yes, I have told them everything.” 

“ But they must have a good fire, and see the bed is aired. 
Of course that room has not been slept in since you went 
away.” 

“ I have told them to light the fire in the old room — 
our room.” 

“ Oh, have you ? ” 


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She was standing near the door, and she spoke with averted 
eyes, in a low, hesitating voice. 

“Jack, I keep saying I am quite myself again — my old 
self. Don’t you understand? I want to be your wife, as 
I was — not as I have been of late.” 

He went to her with outstretched arms. 

“Edie! My wife, my own dear wife.” 

The pale face had flushed to crimson, and she hid it on her 
husband’s breast. 


XVI 


John Barnard had now been so completely accepted as 
an honorary member of his wife’s family, that when they 
were about to enjoy a family debate surpassing in importance 
any that had ever occurred, they unanimously insisted upon 
his being present ; and it was to take part in this uniquely en- 
thralling discussion that he and Edith went, on a June 
evening, to dine at the Albemarle Street house. 

“ Of course, they’ll be all alone,” he said to his wife, as 
the motor-car glided noiselessly through St. James’s Park. 
“No outsiders.” 

“ Oh, no. Only ourselves. It is good of you to come, 
because I’m afraid it will bore you.” 

“ Not a bit. I shall be thoroughly amused. And, any- 
how, it is a treat to spend an evening with you, Edie.” 

By a fortunate chance he had been able to find a free night 
when Lady Rathkeale sent her urgent request for his at- 
tendance. 

“ And what,” he asked, smilingly, “ are your views on the 
great question? Are you for or against? ” 

“ I really can’t make up my mind. There’s so much to be 
said on both sides.” 

“ And they’ll say it, my dear, however much it is. You 
may depend on that.” 

“ Which will you advise them to do ? ” 

“ I shan’t advise. I shall just listen.” 

And then, as the car threaded its way through the traffic 
of Piccadilly, he asked his wife what she had been doing all 
day. 




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“ Very little. I felt tired and lazy, so I didn’t get up 
till quite late.” 

“ That’s right. Take things easy, get as much rest as 
you can,” and he patted her hand affectionately. 

“ In the afternoon, I went down to Kew Gardens with 
the children.” 

“ Very nice, if you didn’t fatigue yourself. Here we are.” 

The great debate of this night was opened with the open- 
ing of the drawing-room door, and was in full swing by the 
time the family had seated themselves at the round table. 

Should they go back to Setley Court ? That was the mo- 
mentous question which had suddenly come into the realm 
of practical politics. Hitherto the question had always been, 
Would they like to go back or not? But now it had under- 
gone a startling change, and had become, Should they really 
go? 

The rich old tenant was dead; the house was their own 
again; the Pall Mall agents wished to know if they desired 
to relet it or to occupy it. They wished to know themselves ; 
they did not know ; much to be said on both sides. 

“ If father would like it,” said Geraldine, “ I do think I 
should like it.” 

“ I should like it well enough,” said dim-eyed Agatha, 
“ if the others really liked it.” 

“ Yes,” said Lord Rathkeale, “ but that’s the whole point. 
For myself, I say at once: ‘ If you all are agreed that you 
would like it, I should like it — for your sake, don’t you 
know.’ ” 

“ Yes,” said Geraldine, “ but none of us would like it, if 
we felt that you w T ere sacrificed in being dragged back after 
so many years.” 

“ How many years is it? Fancy the old fellow hanging 
on so long, and then popping off so suddenly. Of course, 
that was his idea in sticking to the six months’ agreement,” 
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and Lord Rathkeale turned to his son-in-law. “ Quite an 
eccentric, you know — American — very old — heaps of 
money. He took the place for six months — liked it — and 
stayed on. Give us your ideas.” 

“ Well, I shirk the responsibility of even seeming to offer 
advice. There are so many things for you to consider be- 
fore arriving at a decision.” 

“ Just so. You see the difficulty at once. Tremendously 
difficult to decide. Ways and means — a hundred matters 
to go into.” 

The debate went on; and Barnard really enjoyed it, al- 
though he was not permitted to listen silently. They all 
appealed to him in turn; they addressed him as though he 
had been prime minister and speaker of the family parlia- 
ment; they made him provide words sometimes for thoughts 
that they could not themselves adequately express. 

And he, watching their animated faces, answering their 
eager questions, laughing and chaffing with them when for a 
moment the serious nature of the debate was forgotten, 
thought of the night when he had first sat with them in this 
candle-lit room. It amused him to remember the diffidence 
he had felt then, the anxiety to please, the almost awe-struck 
admiration of his wife. He had found it impossible not to 
look at her, gapingly, stupidly, while the others talked. He 
looked at her now, at the mother of his children ; and, when 
he met her eyes, he gave her a husband’s friendly proprie- 
torial smile. 

He had taken her from them, almost by force. They 
had feebly tried to hold her among themselves; they had 
considered him an enemy; they had reluctantly submitted, 
because they were impotent to resist him. Yet now he had 
gained them, too; they all wanted him here; they could 
not do without him, even in the family chatter. All this 
was a part, a very small part, but still a part of his un- 
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checked progress, his unbroken success. Nothing and no 
one could stand against him. 

Old Rathkeale’s last words to him that night, when the 
protracted debate was adjourned, sounded most pleasantly to 
his ear. 

“ If we do go back, we shall owe it all to you, my dear 
fellow. But for you — and rubber — I really could never 
have afforded it.” 

Barnard repeated the words to his wife, as the car took 
them home again; and told her that they had gratified him. 

“ It was nice of your father to say that, wasn’t it? ” 

“ He is very grateful to you,” said Edith. “ We are all 
grateful to you.” 

“ Nonsense. Nothing to be grateful about. All the other 
way round, at any rate, in your case, Edie. But it pleased 
me to hear him say it.” 

“ Did he speak to you as if he had made up his mind to go 
back?” 

“ Oh, no.” 

“ Do you think they will ? ” 

“ Well, I should say, they’ll go on talking about it for a 
year at least, and then I somehow think they will . I think 
Geraldine has made up her mind.” 

About a month after this family dinner, on one of the 
hottest afternoons in July, Barnard received a most unex- 
pected visitor at the Arundel Street offices. The windows 
of his room were wide open, but the air was too sluggish to 
bring a breath of coolness from the river. He was seated 
at the big desk, working in his shirt-sleeves, with his parlia- 
mentary frock-coat trailing over the back of a chair, when 
Miss Fielding softly entered the room and stood, discreetly 
waiting, at his elbow. 

" What is it?” 


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He asked the question without looking up from his desk. 

“ A lady to see you.” 

“ What name? ” 

“ She wouldn’t give her name.” 

“ I won’t see her. Some fool of a shareholder.” 

“ She said private business.” 

“Tell her I’m fully occupied, but I’ll give her five min- 
utes. I can’t give her more. Show her in when I ring 
the bell.” 

A quarter of an hour had passed before he got up from 
the desk, put on his coat, and rang the bell. 

The visitor who had been kept waiting so long was his 
wife’s queer sister. 

“ Agatha,” he cried, jovially, “ what a surprise! ” 

“I don’t know what you’ll think of me — er, John.” 
She always made a little nervous gulp before saying his 
Christian name. “ But I wanted to see you privately — 
alone — so I summoned all my courage,” and she looked 
about the room with her dim, blinking eyes. 

“ A little secret between you and me. Eh ? ” 

“Yes, I trust you never to mention it to the others.” 

“ Splendid ! ” He spoke laughingly and chaffingly. 
“ Have you been won over to rubber? Do you want to 
have a little flutter of your own? Well, I’m your man. 
Splendid!” 

But Lady Agatha hastily repudiated this suggestion. No 
selfish motive had brought her, but a sense of duty: with 
reluctance and doubt she had come to strike a “ warning 
note.” 

“ Warning note! What about? ” 

“ About Edith.” 

“ Edith?” 

“ John, I really am alarmed about her.” 

“ How are you alarmed? ” 

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“ Her health, first of all ! She does seem so nervous and 
overstrung, and so different from what she used to be. And 
she never comes to see us. Except that night when you came 
together — well, I don’t think we have seen her three times 
this summer.” 

“ She has a good many engagements.” 

“ Yes, but not enough to account for it. John, it has 
worried me almost to death, thinking about her, and asking 
myself what can be the cause of the change in her. So at 
last I thought I would do what I felt was my duty, and try 
to talk to you privately.” 

“ Yes, but is that all you had to say? ” 

Agatha had much more to say. But she said it in such 
a hesitating, rambling manner that it was very difficult to 
follow T the drift of the communication. She began with 
generalizations, the necessity of confidence, the mutual re- 
sponsibilities of married life ; and then all at once she seemed 
to be hinting that a young married woman so good-looking 
and fascinating as Edith could not safely be deprived of a 
husband’s constant protection and close surveillance. 

“ Stop. One moment.” Barnard’s face had clouded, and 
there was a hardness and sternness in his tone that made 
Lady Agatha jerk her head nervously. “You know, I 
could not listen to a word against my wife — even from her 
sister. But you are not attempting to cast a doubt on my 
wife’s discretion, are you ? ” 

“ Oh, no, I love Edith too dearly.” 

“ Just so. Whatever love prompts you to say, I am glad 
to hear.” 

“Then it is this — er, John. It seems so unfortunate to 
me that Edith should be thrown entirely on her own re- 
sources.” 

“ Really I can’t admit that.” 

“If not entirely, too much, John. We all know how 
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full your life is; but still — it would be such a pity if cold- 
ness arose — through misunderstanding.” 

“ Upon my word, Agatha, you are teaching me my 
business with a vengeance.” 

“ John, I am not blaming you. Only I am wondering 
if you understand Edith ! ” 

And Agatha described how she herself had come to under- 
stand Edith better than anybody else in the world. 

“You see, John, I was so much older. Before Edith 
was out of the nursery, I had read her character. Edith is 
all heart. One can do anything with Edith through her 
affections, but one must guide her and lead her. More 
than anyone I ever knew, she depends upon love, and needs 
strength behind the love.” 

“ I don’t think she has found much weakness behind my 
love.” 

“ That’s what I hoped so much in the beginning. When 
they told me of your engagement, I was delighted for that 
reason; and I prayed, and believed, it would be a happy 
marriage.” 

“ And it has been — it is — a happy marriage.” 

“ Then, indeed, I pray it may continue to be so. But, 
John, it lies with you to hold it all together, and not let it 
go to pieces as so many unions do nowadays.” 

“ Perhaps, Agatha, you’ll explain exactly what you mean 
by that.” 

“ John, er, don’t be offended with me. I know, mar- 
riage is such a sacred thing that any interference is always 
resented.” 

“ As a general rule, it is as well to let husband and wife 
manage their own affairs.” 

“You are offended?” 

“ No, not a bit.” 

“ Only you think I have said too much ? ” 

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“No, I don’t think you have said quite enough. Please 
go on now, to the end of your thoughts — if there is 
one.” 

“ But you confuse me and frighten me, if you frown and 
look so angry. This is really all I wanted to plead. Can’t 
you arrange to go about with Edith more than you do now? 
And can’t you give her more of the attention and care that I 
know her nature requires? Because really, John, I do feel 
that otherwise the — the affection will not survive as it 
ought. Look at papa and mamma — just as fond of each 
other now as forty years ago.” 

“ Is that all you wanted to say, Agatha? ” 

“Yes, everything,” and she nodded her head very jerkily. 

“ You are not keeping back anything that you wanted to 
say, because you find it difficult to get out ? ” 

“ No, John.” 

“ Very good. Then, as I understand your warning note, 
it amounts to this. You are afraid that the love between 
Edith and me may fade; that on one side or the other cool- 
ness — coldness may arise.” 

“ Yes, yes.” 

“ And you think you have noticed the first signs of this, 
the fashionable up-to-date marriage, a couple rapidly drift- 
ing apart, husband going one way, wife going another way, 
till all the essential part of married life is ignored, forgotten, 
done with. Is that it ? ” 

“Yes, John, that was just my thought.” 

“ And there was nothing but sisterly regard in your com- 
ing to me like this ? ” 

“ No, on my honor, John.” 

“ You didn’t want to make me discontented with Edith, 
but to make me fonder of her? ” 

“Yes, of course. What a strange question to ask.” 

“ I merely want to know exactly how I stand with you. 

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I cannot be offended while I am sure that you meant only 
kindness.” 

“ I mean kindness — only kindness.” 

“ There is such a thing as mischief-making,” and he 
looked at her intently. “ But you don’t mean that? ” 

Lady Agatha drew the lace scarf round her throat with a 
tremulous hand, and rose in a very stately manner. 

“ Good-by — er — John. I thought perhaps you might 
be angry, but I did not think you’d be insulting.” 

“ No, don’t get huffy. Sit down again. Forgive me. I 
had no intention to wound your feelings. I only wanted to 
find out where we were. Now, I feel sure I can trust you.” 

“ Thank you, John,” and Lady Agatha, quite mollified, 
resumed her seat. 

“ Thank you, Agatha. I like you for speaking out so 
frankly. And now I’ll be perfectly frank in return. I’ll 
tell you the plain facts. Some time ago there was a slight 
estrangement between Edith and me.” 

“ Ah, there was an estrangement? ” 

“ Well, that is too big a word. But there was what I 
may call an unsatisfactory condition of affairs. What pro- 
duced it? I couldn’t tell you. There was no real cause — 
it just came about.” 

“ That was what I feared.” 

“Yes, but wait a minute. Now that is over — happily 
passed and gone.” 

“ Then why did she leave you all the winter ? ” 

“ She was dull and moped. It was her own idea to go 
away and try a complete change of surroundings. And 
nothing could have been more successful. When she came 
back from the Riviera, there was a complete rapproche- 
ment. The coldness at which I have hinted had disap- 
peared.” 

“ John, I am very pleased. But still I say, don’t let her 
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rush to and fro — to the Riviera, to this place and that 
place, on the whim of the moment.” 

“ She won’t rush about this winter.” 

“ No, keep her with you. Look after her.” 

“ She’ll look after herself for some time to come. That 
is, you certainly won’t see her gadding.” 

He was smiling at his sister-in-law, and he spoke with a 
jovially triumphant tone. 

“ Agatha, if I tell you a great piece of family news, I 
am sure it will set your mind at rest. E. likes to keep 
these little secrets to herself as long as possible, but — can’t 
you guess?” He laughed gayly, and snapped his fingers. 
“ Edith is going to make you an aunt again. Number 
Three is expected in the nursery some time about Christ- 
mas,” and he concluded with altogether too direct a logic, 
“ that ought to prove we haven’t quite forgotten that we are 
man and wife. Now, where’s your semi-detached couple? ” 

Agatha’s blushing confusion and tremulous embarrassment 
made him laugh heartily. 

He was amused, and yet slightly irritated, when he 
thought of Agatha’s extraordinary visit. Had he not been 
too good-natured in listening patiently to such nonsense? 

But there was this much truth in the nonsense. Edith 
was unduly nervous about the event to which he looked 
forward with confident pride and pleasure. It seemed now 
that the winter’s sunshine and quiet had not really achieved 
all the good that she herself supposed. At best it was but 
a half cure. Those baseless apprehensions that had troubled 
her in the past were merely directed into another channel: 
she used to be anxious and fussy about the children; and 
now she was fearful and excited about herself. 

“ Do be reasonable,” he told her, comfortingly. “ Re- 
member what an easy time you had when Edith was born. 
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Well, this will be an easier time. Dr. Richards will as- 
sure you that we may reasonably expect that. Why should 
you be afraid ? ” 

“ I am afraid of something going wrong. I am afraid 
of dying.” 

He sought by every means that wisdom suggested to 
banish these foolish terrors; but as the months passed, her 
anxiety seemed to grow deeper. Apparently she had lost 
faith in the skill of Dr. Richards; and, at her request, John 
Barnard engaged the services of a younger man, of whom 
some matronly friend of Edith had spoken in terms of high 
praise. 

This Dr. Granville, of Hertford Street, with the special- 
ist’s manner and scientific turn of speech, proved to a certain 
extent useful in allaying the patient’s trepidation. Edith 
seemed better and more cheerful after her first visit to 
the Hertford Street consulting room; and after each of the 
many visits that he paid her in Buckingham Gate, she 
was able for a little while at least to shake off her vague 
terrors. 

Talking to her husband, Dr. Granville pooh-poohed the 
notion of there being any valid cause for unusual anxiety. 

“ Certainly not,” said Dr. Granville. “ Lady Edith has 
everything in her favor, and there is nothing to suggest that 
matters should not take a perfectly normal and satisfactory 
course.” 

On this and other occasions Mr. Barnard impressed upon 
his wife’s medical attendant that no expense, however fan- 
tastic, was to be spared. He would welcome any sugges- 
tion for spending money. But the doctor could not propose 
any outlay that would be likely to conduce to the patient’s 
comfort and security. 

Really the most favorable conditions had been ensured: 
the best maternity nurse was retained; the best doctor in 
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London was here on guard. For what more could one 
ask? 

“ But is London quite the best place for it ? ” inquired 
Barnard. “ How would it be if I took some large house 
in the country ? ” . 

Dr. Granville opined that it would be a mistake to move 
the patient before the event. Afterwards, during convales- 
cence, a change of air would undoubtedly be helpful ; and he 
advised the seaside — Brighton, for instance. 

“ And how soon afterwards would you advise us to 
move her? ” 

“ Oh, a fortnight. Yes, a fortnight, if all goes well. 
Let us calculate where that would bring us to. If our 
reckonings are correct, that would be the second week in 
January. Very well then — nothing better. Brighton in 
January often enjoys perfect weather.” 

John Barnard hired the finest available house on the sea 
front at Hove for three months from Christmas; Lady 
Roscrea promised to come to Buckingham Gate on the twen- 
tieth of December, and to stay there until her sister-in-law’s 
ordeal was over; Lady Rathkeale would support her daugh- 
ter for the first three weeks of the Brighton convalescence: 
really everything that could be done had been done. 

“ And I have your word for it,” said Barnard to the 
doctor, “ that I can go about my work with an easy mind.” 

“ Oh, certainly.” 

“ You don’t attach any importance to my wife’s ideas? I 
may take it that there is no special instinct in these cases? 
I mean, no natural premonition of coming trouble? ” 

“ Well, I would scarcely like to say that. No, that 
might be too much to say. But this I have said from the 
first, and I say it again with the utmost confidence. In 
Lady Edith’s case, I see no reason why matters should not 
follow a perfectly regular and normal course.” 

183 


XVII 


But apparently Dr. Granville’s science was at fault, and 
Edith’s instinct proved correct. Things did not take a 
normal course. 

Barnard, working with an easy mind late on a November 
afternoon, was roused from his absorbing business by the 
excited entrance of Miss Fielding. 

“ One of your servants — at the telephone — says you’re 
wanted at home. Your wife has been taken ill.” 

He snatched his hat, and rushed out of the room, bellow- 
ing to Miss Fielding as he went: 

“ Ring up Dr. Granville, Hertford Street, and tell him 
to go to my house at once. Ring him up at St. Andrew’s 
Hospital, if he isn’t in Hertford Street. A cab, a cab ! ” 

He ran down the street, shouting for a cab — ran as 
far as the Embankment before he found one. At Buck- 
ingham Gate the road was under repair. He leaped from 
the cab and ran again, from the corner to his door, over a 
hundred yards at top speed. When he got into the house, 
he could not speak; he was breathless, gasping, panting, 
with a most abominable stitch in his side. 

The house was in confusion, doors opening and shutting, 
maidservants with scared faces hurrying aimlessly along the 
passages; Dr. Granville was already here; an emergency 
nurse had arrived from the hospital, and another nurse 
would arrive directly. 

“ Calm yourself, pray calm yourself,” said Dr. Granville, 
in reply to Barnard’s questions. 

“ Is she dying? Will she die?” 

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Dr. Granville had soothing words ; but his manner 
seemed anxious and worried. 

“ On occasions like the present, when the anticipated event 
comes on suddenly and rapidly, there is always danger — 
serious danger. However, so far, there is nothing to arouse 
grave fear. We may certainly hope that all will end hap- 
pily.” 

“ Now,” said Dr. Granville, a few minutes later, when 
Barnard had recovered his breath, “ you can see her — 
since you wish it so much.” 

“Yes, I must see her.” 

“ But it is of the utmost importance not to agitate her. 
If we find that your presence has a disturbing effect, I shall 
urge you very strongly to keep away.” 

Then the husband was admitted to the room and saw his 
wife. 

A white face distorted with pain, eyes that looked at him 
wildly, and an agonized, unrecognizable voice imploring 
him not to approach. 

“ Jack, leave me to my misery. Don’t think of me. 
Don’t come near me.” 

His presence unquestionably agitated her. Doctor Gran- 
ville, talking to him outside the room again, begged him to 
wait patiently downstairs. 

And then the long hours passed, as in an ugly, meaning- 
less dream. He stood in his library, waiting, listening, and 
the whole house settled down into an ominous, unnatural 
silence. People came and went with a curious and stupid 
automatism, as if they had been puppets acting on a stage 
that was insufficiently illuminated. 

Another doctor arrived and went upstairs. Lady Rath- 
keale was here just now, speaking in what seemed to be a 
strained and affected voice. Now she, too, had gone up- 
stairs. The servants laid the table for dinner, announced 

185 


THE REST CURE 


dinner, and cleared away the dinner which nobody had 
tasted; and then laid out another dinner for one of the 
nurses or doctors. To Barnard, sitting with clenched hands 
and frowning at the fire, it seemed that all reality had gone 
from the world; he and all the rest of these people were 
acting their preposterous, futile dream, while the two impal- 
pable forces of death and destiny waged their tremendous 
battle unchecked and unheeded. 

His wife was real — and nothing else. She was lying 
in torment, sinking down to fathomless depths, dragged and 
mauled by demoniac powers as she sank into the black void 
of eternal annihilation; and all round her, capering on the 
safe brink of the precipice, were these phantoms — the 
nurses who could not help her, the doctors who would not 
save her, the friends who did not fight for her. 

“ Edie, my own sweet girl.” He said the words to him- 
self, again and again. “ My wife, my loved wife. My 
own dear girl.” 

His heart beat with leaden strokes, his breath was fast 
and labored; a cold perspiration broke out upon his fore- 
head. It was a very long time since his emotions had 
assumed so strong a sway over his intellect. 

The unmeasured time slowly passed by him, and still all 
his thought was concentrated on his love. 

He did not eat, he did not sleep. The doctors came 
down, now one, and now the other, ate and drank, smoked 
cigarettes, and gave him bulletins. 

“ This is a longer job than you expected, I dare say. 
Very distressing the anxiety must be. But we are doing 
better upstairs. We will keep you informed. We would 
tell you at once, if matters took a bad turn.” 

Impotent phantoms face to face with reality, so well used 
to their shadow-like powerlessness that they do not even 
suffer in failure! 

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THE REST CURE 


He was walking now: he felt that he would go mad if he 
remained motionless. Nearly all night he walked about the 
library, thinking of his love, of what she had been to him, 
thinking how willingly he would give his life for hers, if 
truly a life must be given. 

Then, toward dawn, a maidservant summoned him; and 
he heard the sound that he had heard in his home twice 
before — the thin, squealing voice of a new-born babe. 

The hospital nurse met him at the top of the stairs. She 
was hastening from the open door with something wrapped 
in a blanket: a hooded bundle, from which the small in- 
sistent cry issued. But the sight and the sound brought 
him no thrill of joy. His thought was for his wife only. 

“ A dear little girl,” said the nurse, glancing at him 
dubiously and then smirking. 

" But she — my wife ? ” 

“Yes, yes. She is alb right. They think she has come 
through it very nicely. They’ll let you go into the room 
directly.” 

The nurse had hurried along the passage with her burden, 
and she paused at another open door to look back at him. 

“ It’s all right, sir,” said the nurse, compassionately. 
“ Don’t be afraid.” 

He stood with his hands pressed against his chest, and 
felt the horrible dread passing away from him. He could 
breathe again now in comfort. His wife had been spared to 
him. 

The dread had been lifted from his heart, but keen 
anxiety remained. For a fortnight Edith was very ill; and 
for another week the doctors could not, or would not, tell 
him that she was out of danger. During this time he 
scarce saw the poor little creature that had occasioned so 
much pain and terror. He could take no interest in the 

187 


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child while thoughts of the mother were occupying all his 
leisure moments. 

It was a terribly slow convalescence. The Brighton house 
stood empty, waiting for her; but she seemed quite unable 
to face the fatigue of a journey. She showed no desire to 
return to the world, or in any way to accelerate her progress 
toward recovery. Dr. Granville told Barnard that the 
time had come when she should make an effort, that a kindly 
pressure should be exerted by husband and friends, to rouse 
her from a listless apathy no longer justified by physical 
weakness. 

“ We must get you out for drives,” said Barnard, cheerily. 
“To-morrow now. If it’s fine — out with you.” 

When he came to sit with her of an evening, he would 
inquire if the effort had been made. 

“ Well, my dear. What news? Been out? ” 

But always the effort had been postponed. She lay all 
day on a sofa, not reading books, not writing letters, not 
doing anything to shake off the attributes of an invalid. 
Each day was like the last; the days mounted into weeks, 
months; and still she lay languid and supine, not caring for 
movement, air, and sunshine, not wishing to see green trees, 
open fields, or smokeless skies. 

Already Barnard had quite forgotten the dread, and had 
nearly forgotten the anxiety, so that when, in speaking to 
the convalescent, he made light of past perils, he spoke with 
complete sincerity. The episode had ended most happily. 
Then why dwell upon its details? 

But Edith would have it that she was snatched from 
death only by the semi-miraculous skill of her doctors and 
nurses. 

“ They saved my life, Jack.” 

“ Well,” he said, “ that’s what they are paid for doing. 

1 88 


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It’s their business to save people’s lives, though really I 
think you altogether exaggerate their power. It seemed 
to me they did nothing, and that you can thank a naturally 
good constitution.” 

She, however, continued to express an almost crushing 
sense of her gratitude to these highly paid assistants. 

One day, when the hospital nurse was fussing round the 
sick room, he noticed that she wore a ring of his wife’s. It 
was a present from the grateful patient. 

He showed a slight irritation, when the nurse had left 
them alone and Edith was apologetically explaining. 

“No, I hadn’t forgotten that you gave it to me, Jack. 
But she admired it so much, and she has been such a dear to 
me.” 

“ Frankly,” he said, “ I think you make a fool of the 
woman, and of yourself. Edith, I am saying this only for 
your good. Send her back to her hospital, and make up 
your mind that you are well. You really are well now.” 

“ But if I send her away, baby will suffer. She has 
special knowledge of delicate babies.” 

“ The baby is all right. A very fine, strong baby — all 
things considered.” 

“ No, she is weak and frail,” and Edith burst into tears. 
“ My baby will die. I know it. My baby and I ought 
to have died together. I wish they hadn’t saved us.” 

He was compelled to ring for the sick-nurse, and to 
confess that he had unfortunately upset her patient. 

He hated the sight of the nurse, and of her hospital 
ways. He told Lady Rathkeale that Edith would never be 
herself again until they had cleared the gray cloak and 
white apron out of the house. He hated the atmosphere of 
fuss and folly that these hangers-on had created in his home. 
He hated all the old women’s tales about seven-months chil- 
dren never being able to overcome the accident of their birth. 

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He answered such rubbish with plain facts, with the recog- 
nized statistics accessible to any sensible person who has a 
solid interest in the matter. Not the slightest reason that 
a seven-months child should not develop into a hale and 
hearty man or woman. 

He “ dropped on ” the superstitious, ignorant, nursery 
chatterers who said that the little girl would never have the 
stamina of her brother and sister. She was his child; and 
he would not allow for one moment that he had not suc- 
ceeded in transmitting his strength and energy, in spite of 
hazards and accidents. 

“ Stuff and nonsense,” he told the nursery guardian. 
“ She may need more care in rearing; and if you don’t feel 
yourself capable of rearing her, ask Williams to send you 
up The Morning Post a and begin to look out for another 
situation.” 

He renewed his tenancy of the Brighton house; and at 
last, about the middle of March, Edith made the effort and 
went there. He was very glad to feel that the episode had 
reached its conclusion. It had been spun out much more 
than long enough. 


XVIII 


Time was flying again, and his life passed in a remorse- 
less struggle with the hours. No day was long enough for 
him; no night, however short he made it, could be really 
spared from his unfinished work. 

He and time were running a race; and now that he drew 
nearer to the goal, fear sometimes clutched at his heart. 
Fear of what? He did not know. But often, during these 
two years, he was troubled with fits of doubt and depres- 
sion. All at once, in a moment, the cloudy thoughts would 
come upon him; and, till the cloud lifted, he felt an inex- 
plicable hesitation, perplexity, and vacillation of purpose, 
which brought with them a sense of enforced delay when 
energy was absolutely essential to his safety. Such sensa- 
tions were gone so quickly that they made no impression on 
his memory. He thought of them no more until they re- 
turned. 

Then, when they were gone again, he worked harder than 
before. He had stupidly paused in the race; he must sprint 
now, to make up for lost ground. 

In his home, things went easily and smoothly, though 
perhaps beneath the calm surface of all this side of his life 
there lay something of hidden trouble, of hidden pain, if 
one had time to think of it. Those old demands for what 
he could not give, the demands which he used to feel even 
when they were not uttered, had altogether ceased to worry 
him. The faint calls of wife and children had been effec- 
tually silenced ; no interruption of his work had been caused 
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by love since Edith’s illness and the birth of her daughter 
Isabel. 

Edith had accepted the logic of facts : a working man must 
work and not play. 

She was a docile companion, who never asked for impos- 
sibilities, who seemed grateful for the smallest benefits. 
For her, life was bounded by the home walls; the world 
was her nursery; she cared no more for social amusements, 
and, except when her husband wished her to go with him, 
she never went to parties. 

She filled the days, that he found so short, with devoted 
care of his children, teaching Johnnie the alphabet, buying 
skipping ropes for Edith, and nursing, guarding, praying 
over her fatally fragile little Isabel. 

The baby was not strong. Even the father must own the 
truth of what Dr. Richards, who had now been restored 
to his position as household doctor, said so authori- 
tatively. 

Barnard, standing by his wife’s side, and looking down 
at the pallid little face and rickety legs, confessed to him- 
self that here had been forged a too slender link in the 
chain of life. Nevertheless he spoke to Edith cheerfully and 
confidently. 

“No, she does not seem all that one would wish, but 
that’s no reason why we should be down-hearted about her. 
Her appetite is much better than it was, so nurse says. 
That is so, is it not, nurse ? ” 

And nurse, who trembled in her shoes whenever the master 
addressed her directly, replied that Miss Isabel was taking 
her nourishment very nicely. 

“ Better than before? ” 

“ Yes, sir, much better.” 

“ Very well, then. Take my word for it, Edie, she’ll 
pick up strength fast when once she begins. You’ll see, 
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by the time she has turned her third birthday she’ll be just 
as robust as her sister was at the same age.” 

“ Do you really think so, or do you only say it to com- 
fort me? ” 

“ I mean every word I say. You must remember, she has 
been pulled down by that unlucky gastric attack. Now she 
has her first chance of making headway. Nurse, have you 
followed my orders about your bottles and dishes and 
things? ” 

“ Oh, yes, sir.” 

“ Boiling water, boiling water. Cleanliness, and air. 
Watch your thermometers. Keep an even temperature, but 
don’t be afraid of fresh air,” and he went downstairs, tw T o 
steps at a time, calling to a servant for his hat and coat. 

This was one of his rare visits to the nursery. The old 
habit of rushing up to take a morning peep at the children 
before he started for business had been abandoned long ago. 

He tried to please his wife by the hopeful tone with 
which he spoke of the child, and by the sympathetic atten- 
tion with which he listened to her doleful forebodings. 

In fact, he tried to please his wife by every method that 
did not obviously handicap him in the race with time. 

He was trying to please her when he brought home the 
good news that the family, after two years’ discussion, 
were really going to Setley Court. 

“Yes, your father told me so half an hour ago. My 
prophecy has come true. He said that Geraldine had given 
the casting vote. I knew all along that Geraldine meant 
to take them back.” 

Edith received the great news without excitement or 
enthusiasm; but she thanked her husband for the kind 
thought which had prompted him to run into the house as a 
news-bearer while on his way from Arundel Street to West- 
minster. 


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“Capital, isn’t it?” he said, buoyantly. “I mean, to 
think of them all re-established in the old place. And you’ll 
go down and stay with them, of course, as soon as possible. 
You’ll like that — won’t you? to see the old place once 
more.” 

“ Oh, yes,” said Edith, listlessly, “ I shall like to see it.” 

He was trying to please her again when, after considerable 
exertion and appreciable loss of time, he effected a master- 
stroke in behalf of that cousin of hers, Mr. Cyril Stewart. 
But here he met with a double disappointment. 

He had promised her to do something for Cyril if a 
chance arose, and he never forgot his promise. Although 
he had not seen this rather supercilious out-of-work gentle- 
man for over three years, he nevertheless faithfully “ bore 
him in mind ” ; pigeon-holed somewhere in his capacious 
brain was the memorandum, “Job for that fellow, Stewart, 
to please E.” 

Writing to her when she had met the fellow at Cannes, 
he said that he hoped a good chance might come before the 
end of the parliamentary session. And this was quite true; 
but the chance failed. The Government, busy with one of 
their many new Army schemes, were appointing four well- 
paid inspectors or directors or advisors, who were to travel 
about the country buying, counting, and registering horses 
for the regular and territorial cavalry. Such an appoint- 
ment would just suit Cyril. Barnard tried hard to do the 
trick; and failed. Truly it was too much to hope that 
Opposition influence could carry through such a job. Hav- 
ing failed, John Barnard, M. P., said nothing about it to 
anybody. 

Now an infinitely better, a marvelously good chance 
occurred. Among Barnard’s business friends there was an 
immensely rich man who was setting up as a county mag- 
nate on the largest scale. He had just bought an historical 
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house and estate in the midlands; he desired to breed 
pheasants, race horses, prize cattle; he wished to entertain 
the fashionable world in batches; and he wanted a man to 
take trouble off his hands — to run the estate, the shootings, 
the house-parties, and himself. Money no object — two 
thousand a year — three thousand a year — anything you 
like, if you can get me the right man. 

Barnard said he had the right man in his pocket; and he 
hurried off, with the charmingly ornamental and fantastic- 
ally lucrative post in his other pocket. 

He would not tell Edith of his success until he could say 
the whole thing was settled; there are so many slips be- 
tween the cup and the lip. Fortunately Stewart was living 
in London now, although he had never troubled to call 
upon his cousin; and, with information supplied by Lord 
Rathkeale, Barnard hunted him down at a club in St. James’ 
Street. 

Barnard stood in the hall of the club while a servant 
took his card to the apartment with the bow windows, 
where the members lounge and dawdle through the empty 
hours; and, coming in and out of the hall, there were men 
just like Stewart, well-bred, well-brushed dogs who think 
they confer an obligation on the universe when they em- 
ploy their useless mouths in eating up its surplus store 
of food. “You may always trust an idle man to keep you 
waiting,” thought Barnard, looking at the hall clock. 

“ Oh, hullo ! ” Stewart, with the visiting card in his 
hand, had lounged into the hall. “You wanted to see 
me?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Is it anything important? ” 

Barnard shrugged his shoulders and frowned. 

“ Yes, important to you, I think.” 

He resented the manner of his reception; and he thought 
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that Stewart had deteriorated in appearance. The old 
half-conceited insolence seemed to have changed to a sort of 
aggressive carelessness; and the easy, too easy, self-possession 
had gone; the fellow was smartly dressed as ever, but he 
had somehow lost what Barnard surmised to be the best 
style in his own class. 

“ Ve-ve-very good.’* Stewart stammered and flushed ; 
and, with all his outward swagger forsaking him, he looked 
for a moment simpjy sheep-faced and confused. “ Very 
good. If you want to speak to me, we’d better come in here. 
No one will disturb us here,” and he led the visitor into 
a small empty room at the end of a passage. 

“ Upon my word,” thought Barnard, following him down 
the passage, “ he is absolutely ashamed of my being seen 
at his club. He puts me somewhere out of the way, where 
I can’t bump up against his lordly friends.” 

“ Now, then,” said Stewart, shutting the door after the 
visitor had entered the room. “I am ready to hear wha- 
wha-whatever you have to say. Out with it.” 

“ Out with it? Well, by George, this is helping a man 
against his will with a vengeance. I came here to do you as 
good a turn as one chap ever did another, but I think I’ll 
change my mind, and be off, without intruding on you any 
longer.” 

“You came to do me a good turn? How on earth do 
you mean? ” 

“ Do you want three thousand a year for doing nothing 
except going out hunting and shooting? Because I came 
to tell you I’d got it for you.” 

Then, swallowing his indignation, Barnard described the 
post that he was empowered to offer. He began curtly and 
brusquely; but, as he talked, his irritation passed away, and 
he wound up with jovial heartiness. 

“ There you are, and good luck to you.” 

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“ Well, of course, it is extraordinarily kind of you, 
Barnard. By the way, does Edith know what you sug- 
gest?” 

“ Not yet. I am keeping it as a pleasant surprise for 
her.” 

“ Oh, give me a minute to think about it. Have you 
lunched? Will you have a drink?” 

Barnard had never liked Stewart; but, before the inter- 
view was over, he most thoroughly disliked him. His man- 
ner was always changing. After his first insolent coldness he 
adopted a sort of forced cordiality. He spoke of being 
grateful. Then he said he was “ very much obliged ” ; and 
Barnard thought that this expression was so inadequate as 
to be impertinent. Finally, assuming the casual tone of 
conventional politeness that might serve between two 
strangers who had exchanged civilities in a railway car- 
riage, Cyril thanked his cousin’s husband for kind intentions, 
and definitely refused the offer. 

“You refuse? Why, in the name of reason? Not good 
enough for you, eh ? ” 

“ No doubt it’s a grand opportune,” said Stewart; “ but 
— well — I don’t care about it.” 

Barnard was too much incensed by the man’s folly to dis- 
cuss the matter any further. He went away from Stew- 
art’s club feeling angry, and disgusted. 

Telling Edith of how her cousin, by his asinine refusal, 
had frustrated the attempt to provide him with means, 
amusement, and occupation, Barnard expressed very plainly 
his contemptuous disapproval. 

“ I really am too sick to talk about it. He is the most 
impracticable ass I ever met — except my poor brother 
Dick. There are some people who are impossible to help, 
who won’t be helped, and who always make a fool of one, 
if one tries to help them.” 


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“ I am sorry you troubled about him,” said Edith. 
“ Never trouble about him again.” 

And this emotionless comment on the transaction fur- 
nished the other half of the disappointment. Barnard had 
counted on warm thanks from his wife. He had loyally 
endeavored to give her pleasure; he could not refrain from 
acquainting her with his very handsome though unsuccessful 
effort to benefit her relative, and he thought he might rely 
on a grateful acknowledgment. 

“ No, I certainly shan’t trouble about him again. You 
and he — and the other members of your family — may be 
quite sure of that.” 


XIX 


This was perhaps the busiest day of his life. 

The day began at 5 A. m., when his wife’s voice roused 
him from a deep slumber. The nurse was talking at the 
bedroom door. She had come down to say that she was 
frightened about Miss Isabel, and she thought Dr. Rich- 
ards should be summoned. 

Barnard telephoned for the doctor, called some of the 
servants, bathed and dressed and shaved with lightning 
rapidity, and was upstairs in the nursery sitting by the child’s 
cot when Dr. Richards arrived. 

He devoted the next three hours solely and entirely to 
domestic affairs. 

The child had been ailing for the last week with a slight 
recurrence of the gastric trouble, and now she had become 
restless, sleepless, feverish; but Dr. Richards appeared to 
think that he had been snatched from his comfortable bed 
without due cause. He opined that there was nothing much 
amiss. 

Edith, in her dressing gown, with white, scared face, 
trembling hands, and dark hair tumbling loose about her 
shoulders, proved very difficult to reassure. 

“ But, my dear, you don’t listen ; you won’t attend to 
what Dr. Richards is telling you.” 

Fear had rendered her almost distraught. She clung to 
the doctor’s arm, burst into convulsive sobbings, and dragged 
the doctor back toward the cot when he was about to go 
away again. 


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“ Stay with her. Don’t go. Oh, for God’s sake, don’t 
let my baby die. Oh, save my poor little baby.” 

Her agitation was most pitiable. Indeed it was his wife’s 
hysterical state, rather than alarm on account of the child, 
that kept Barnard so busy until 8 130 a. m. 

He had a few sensible words at eight o’clock with Dr. 
Richards. The doctor had been good enough to “ stand 
by ” the case for more than two hours; he would come back 
after breakfast; and he promised to look in as often as he 
could during the day. 

“ That’s right, and keep my wife as calm as possible.” 

“ Yes, I think Lady Edith is quite unnecessarily anxious.” 

“ So do I. But — excuse a straight question — you feel 
confident in your own resources, and don’t think it would 
be advisable to get another opinion? ” 

Dr. Richards was not offended by the straightness of the 
question. He said he would welcome any specialist that 
Barnard cared to name; but, at present, he did not hon- 
estly see an occasion for a consultation. 

“ Good. I only wanted to put the thing on firm ground. 
If you feel that you understand the case thoroughly, I am 
satisfied. So long as you have confidence in yourself, I have 
confidence in you. Now I shall be at my place in Arundel 
Street till five p. m. This is my telephone number,” and 
he gave Dr. Richards a neatly folded sheet of paper. “ Let 
me know at once if you see danger, of any kind, upstairs.” 

“ Yes, I’ll report progress each time I come.” 

“ No, don’t do that. If I hear nothing, I shall know all 
is well. Only ring me up if something is wrong. And, 
look here, in the course of the day, you might write down the 
names and addresses of some of the tip-top men — say four, 
in their order of merit. You see what I mean. It’s always 
wise to be prepared. If we want a specialist in a hurry, let 
us know where to get him.” 


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After the doctor had gone, Barnard talked calmingly to 
his wife for thirty minutes. Then he read his letters and 
ate his breakfast simultaneously, and at five minutes to nine 
he went off to his work. 

As he shut the hall door behind him, it was as if he had 
resolutely shut out all the domestic side of existence. As 
the motor-car began to move and the house vanished from 
his sight, all thought of home faded from his mind. 

Till he reached Arundel Street he was steadily concen- 
trating his energies upon the day’s work, devising arrange- 
ments for its completion in the few, the too few hours at 
his disposal. 

The difficulty lay in this: on the morrow, whatever hap- 
pened, he must leave London. To-morrow he must attend 
a big political meeting at Manchester, and deliver a plat- 
form speech which would inevitably add to his reputation or 
detract from it. The speech was ready — he need not 
think of that. It would be all right: these honest cotton- 
spinning folk, who had asked for Barnard and declined to 
listen to an ex-cabinet minister, should not be made to re- 
gret that they had done him so much honor. 

To-day, then, the work was an enforced clearing-up ; and 
the matters to be tidily finished and put out of the way were 
in their nature of the highest importance. 

Beyond the mass of his routine tasks there was the ac- 
cumulated business of another new company, now on the 
eve of flotation. In this matter an untoward hitch had oc- 
curred. A man who had been considered a faithful ally 
was apparently playing them false. Friend or foe, this man 
was a force that must be reckoned with: he could not be 
treated lightly. Barnard had an appointment with him 
at four o’clock, and hoped to settle the points in dispute. 
If, by firmness of tackling, this man could be bound to them 
securely, the day’s w T ork would be crowned with success. 

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Four o’clock; much to be got through before then. 
Say an hour for the fateful interview. Then two more 
strenuous hours at the office again. No House of Com- 
mons to-day. That takes us to seven o’clock. Then twenty 
minutes for reading advertisement proofs and last look 
round. And then just time to get back to Buckingham 
Gate and dress for our little dinner-party. 

Three or four business friends, friends of the new com- 
pany, were to dine with Mr. Barnard, hear the result of 
the interview, and discuss the final details of the flotation. 

By three o’clock he had done wonders. He was so well 
ahead, that he could pause now to devour a sandwich and 
gulp down a whisky and soda. He was standing on the 
hearth-rug, with some written notes, in his hand; and, be- 
tween the big mouthfuls, he dictated to a short-hand clerk 
who had taken his place at the table. 

“ The telephone, sir.” 

He was so absorbed that he had not heard the bell. He 
threw the unfinished sandwich into the fire, and, crossing 
the room, picked up the receiver and listened to the distant 
voice that was calling for him. 

“ Miss Fielding,” he shouted. “ Send Miss Fielding to 
me. 

Miss Fielding found him at his desk, aimlessly shuffling 
the heaps of papers with one hand, and holding the other 
hand against his forehead. 

“ I must stop,” he said, slowly and dully. “ I must go. 
They want me — at home. They think our little girl is 
worse.” 

“ Do they want you at once? ” 

“ Yes, I suppose so,” and he sat down, let his hands drop 
heavily on the desk, and stared at Miss Fielding va- 
cantly. 


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“ But the appointment with Mr. Bicknell? Can’t you see 
him first? ” 

“ No. I am stopped. This has stopped me — of course.” 

“ It is very unfortunate,” said Miss Fielding, sympathetic- 
ally. 

“Yes — nothing — could be — more unfortunate,” and 
he stared at his desk, and then looked round the room. 
“ Unfortunate. But it is something that must be attended 
to at once.” 

“ Mr. Barnard,” Miss Fielding had come quickly to his 
side. “ Is there anything the matter with you ? Are you 
feeling ill ? ” 

“ I ? No, it is my poor little child who is ill,” and he 
sprang up from the chair, and spoke loudly and rapidly. 
“Yes, that is what I have to attend to. Tell them to get 
me a cab. My hat. My coat. Look here. I may be 
back in an hour. Good-by. Do what you can for me.” 

In the cab, all the way to Buckingham Gate, he was 
bracing himself for strenuous effort, steadily concentrating 
his thoughts on the business that he was about to take up. 
When he turned the latchkey in the hall door, he was brisk 
and alert, ready for this other work ; as he shut the hall door 
behind him, he shut out the whole world of commerce, 
finance, and politics. 

The child was dangerously ill. Barnard at a glance sat- 
isfied himself of the fact : one required no medical knowledge 
to be sure of that, and perhaps he was better able than those 
who had been watching her so closely to measure the extent 
of the change since the morning. 

Dr. Richards did not understand the case, had never un- 
derstood it. Barnard quickly grasped this second fact. 
The man had altogether lost confidence in himself. He said 
he thought the fever might abate of its own accord, and then 
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talked vaguely and stupidly of unrecognized causes that 
might account for the fever. He mumbled the names of dis- 
eases, peritonitis, typhoid, intestinal catarrh, as if offering 
one the choice of them. 

Barnard beckoned his wife out of the nursery, put his arm 
round her waist, and spoke to her with a gentle firmness. 

“ Edith, I am going to fetch Sir William Chudleigh. 
I’ll bring him, -or someone else as good, within half an hour.” 

She was clinging to him, as she had clung to the doctor ; 
her hands, her whole frame trembled; her eyes were like 
dark holes cut in a gray mask. 

“ Now, while I am gone, you must try to be calm.” 

“ Yes,” she whispered. “ I’ll try.” 

“ I wish I could tell you that I believed there was no 
real danger; but that I cannot do. Our little one is cer- 
tainly in peril. Nevertheless, don’t give way to blind fear. 
Remember this, we must keep our heads for her sake. Fear 
paralyzes action.” 

“ Yes,” she repeated, in the same toneless whisper, “ I’ll 
try.” 

Then he kissed her, went downstairs, and dashed off in his 
motor-car. 

Luck favored him in his quest for the great physician. 
Before the thirty minutes had passed, he found Sir William 
and returned to the house with him. 

Sir William, a massive gray-haired man, said the case was 
critical. The trouble was an obstruction in the bowels; 
and the question was, Should they resort to surgical inter- 
ference? Should one operate or not? — a difficult ques- 
tion to answer then. And Sir William, though he loyally 
shielded the reputation of a humble confrere, could not 
prevent Barnard from deducing the fact that the question 
would have been easier to answer yesterday, should have 
been answered yesterday. 


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In any event Sir William, the physician, would not per- 
form the operation. Dr. Clarence Dykefield, the famous 
surgeon, would be the man. Sir William desired to see 
Dr. Dykefield without a minute’s avoidable delay, for the 
purpose of holding a consultation with him — and, of 
course, with his good friend, Dr. Richards, also. 

Then the telephone was used freely, and Barnard dashed 
off in the motor-car to fetch Dr. Dykefield. 

The surgeon, a dark thin man, was found and brought up 
to the nursery door; and Sir William asked that he and 
his colleagues might be left quite alone in the room. They 
would come down after the consultation; and Lady Edith 
was not to distress herself if some little time elapsed before 
they did come down. They wished to discuss things at 
length. 

The three men were agreed. With the parents’ consent, 
Dr. Dykefield would perform an operation at once — that 
is to say, in an hour, when Mr. Curtice, who was Dr. 
Dykefield’s favorite anaesthetist, could be there to assist. A 
surgical nurse must be procured from the hospital, and all 
necessary preparations would easily be made in the time 
mentioned. 

Dr. Dykefield explained that he couldn’t say how serious 
was the case until he had operated: but, at any rate, it was 
attended with considerable risk. The operation was as 
much of a preventive as of a remedial character; and, in his 
opinion, it was absolutely essential. 

Sir William explained that the severity of the operation 
would entirely depend upon the circumstances disclosed. 
In his opinion, one must face all risks in order to avert 
pressing and increasing dangers. To operate was the usual 
course to pursue ; it was the only course which held out pros- 
pects of relief and cure. 

14 


205 


THE REST CURE 


Dr. Richards explained that his opinion was identical w ith 
that of his two distinguished friends. 

One of the parents gave consent; the other parent with- 
held it; and the scene that followed was painful even for 
judges accustomed to observe the agony of doubt and fear 
caused by their verdicts. 

“ Would I say, Yes, if I did not believe that there was 
no safe alternative?” Barnard, with his wife clinging to 
his hands, spoke in a low, pitying voice. “You know that 
I love her. She is my child as well as yours.” 

Both the parents had consented. Upstairs the hospital 
nurse was in charge ; all was ready ; soon the four men would 
be here. 

Barnard had brought his wife down to the library, and 
was holding her under kindly guard. 

“ Yes, my dearest girl, stay wdth me now. We have done 
everything. It is better, better for her, that you and I 
should keep quietly out of the way. You and I must help 
each other to be brave, to hope for a speedy termination to 
our anxiety. We won’t lose heart, Edie, even if the anxiety 
continues longer than we expect.” 

Was there any real feeling behind the words, or was it all 
automatic ? There was kindness in the sound of his voice. 

“ This,” he said, “ is one of those sad hours which seem 
endless. They come in every life, and one would wish to 
cancel them altogether. If, by moving the hands of the 
clock, I could lose this hour out of my life, I would do it. 
If Dykefield could give you and me the anaesthetic, too, and 
make us unconscious ! ” While he talked he had been walk- 
ing about the room ; and now he stopped near the writing 
table. 

“ Yes, ask him to do it.” 

“ To do what, my dear? ” 

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“ Ask him to give me the chloroform — make me uncon- 
scious. I can’t bear it.” 

She was sitting with clenched hands and bowed head ; she 
spoke in a hoarse whisper. 

“ My darling, you must be brave.” He had left the 
writing table; and with a slow caressing movement of his 
hand, he stroked her dark hair. “ You must remember these 
men thoroughly understand their business. They are dif- 
ferent from Richards. They are at the very top of the tree. 
Their skill is so great that one may safely say the risk is 
lowered to its irreducible minimum. But don’t allow your 
mind to dwell on the risk at all. Push away the thought 
of it.” 

She did not look up. 

“ I know it is difficult,” he said, soothingly, “ but if you 
Could occupy the mind with other thoughts — ” 

Then he went back to the writing table, and seated him- 
self in his revolving chair. 

“Is there anything we have left undone?” He had 
picked up a pen. “ No. Is there anything more that we 
can do? Edie! I am writing a few lines to your mother. 
She would wish to know.” 

“ Yes. She would wish to know.” 

When he had finished the note to Lady Rathkeale, he 
wrote three telegrams. 

“ I am putting off our friends — the men I expected to 
dinner.” He said this in a rapid, business-like tone, as he 
crossed the room to ring the bell. “ Of course we don’t 
want any guests here to-night, although I firmly hope 
that by eight o’clock we may be comparatively easy in our 
minds. 

“ Oh, get these despatches at once, Williams, and come 
back for some more. And send a telephonic message to 
each of those addresses; Mr. Barnard’s compliments, and 
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the dinner is put off because of illness in the house — serious 
illness in the house.” 

Then, when the servant had gone, he reseated himself 
and wrote a sheaf of telegrams and three letters. 

“ Edie,” and he turned in the revolving chair, “ I am 
canceling my Manchester engagement. Although I con- 
fidently expect that everything will be going on as we wish 
to-morrow, you will still be more or less anxious, and I 
should not care for you to be alone.” 

“ That’s good of you.” 

“ My dear, I wouldn’t dream of leaving you at such a 
time.” 

The doctors had returned, and were upstairs at their 
work. 

Barnard wrote no more letters. With hands clasped be- 
hind his back, he walked up and down the room, and talked 
to his wife. She was sitting in the same attitude, but now 
and then she raised her head and stared at the open door. 

“ How long is it now? ” She had moistened her lips with 
her tongue before uttering the husky words. 

“ Barely four minutes. They cannot have begun yet. 
Now is the time, my poor Edie, when we need all our cour- 
age. Now we shall find that every minute is like an hour, 
it will pass so slowly. That is such a wonderful thing, the 
varying pace of time. It seems to depend solely on what one 
is doing oneself. To me, that is always wonderful, because 
throughout my life I have been trying to do too much in 
each allotted space of time. But I never understood it so 
well as now. Four minutes! I should have said twenty 
minutes, at the very least. 

“ My poor Edie, I know how your heart is being torn. 
When you were ill, when our little one was given to us, I 
went through what you are suffering now. It was in this 
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room that I waited for news, as we are waiting now. 
Agony of mind — dreadful. I thought I should lose my 
darling, and the night seemed as if it would last for ever. 

| But before morning the good news came. And the good 
I news will come now. Courage, courage, courage. We 
have to think of the marvelous recuperative power of youth, 

! and the — ” 

“ What was that?” 

“ Nothing. I doubt if they have begun — even yet. No, 
we must wait with what patience we can; and believe, as I 
believe, that all will be well. I had no faith in those men 
who attended you. One of them I never heard of, and 
Granville I never really cared for. But now we are on a 
very different footing. The names of these two men — 
Chudleigh and Dykefield — are household words. I didn’t 
call them in merely because Richards suggested them. I 
know them both ; everybody knows them — by reputation.” 

“ Please, please don’t talk. I want to listen.” 

“ Very well. But you won’t hear anything yet awhile. 
I was only putting forward the thoughts that should help 
you. The great resistance that children offer, and the un- 
doubted skill of these men. Honestly, I believe we are in 
safe hands.” 

“ We are in God’s hands.” 

“ Very well, I won’t say a word against that. If it is a 
j thought from which you can draw strength, hold fast to it.” 

He had laid his hand upon her shoulder, but she shrank 
away. 

“ Don’t go on talking or you’ll drive me mad. Listen.” 

“ Yes, but Edie,” and he spoke with intensely real feeling 
now. “ I can’t think — I won’t think that our little one 
will be taken from us.” 

The operation had been successfully performed. The 
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child had taken the anaesthetic excellently; she was sleep- 
ing off its effects very comfortably. The mother had seen 
her. The doctors were thproughly satisfied with results. 

“ Capital,” said Barnard. “ Then I may take it that all 
your anticipations are realized ? ” 

“ Oh, quite,” said the great Sir William. 

This was when the doctors were going. Dr. Richards 
could now be entrusted with the immediate care of the case : 
he would come in and out frequently. Dr. Dykefield would 
return at ten o’clock to have a look at the patient, and he 
would be here again early in the morning to see how she had 
passed the night. 

“ Good,” said Barnard. “ But one question, Dr. Dyke- 
field! Can we — can you depend on your nurse? ” 

“ Oh, yes. She is one of the best nurses in London.” 

“ And when she goes off duty, another one will have been 
sent in ? ” 

“ Yes, I have arranged about that.” 

“ Then can anything else be done ? ” 

“ No, I don’t think so.” 

“We are doing all that is humanly possible? That’s 
right. I am sincerely grateful to you both. Then good- 
by — till ten o’clock.” 

After ushering the doctors through the hall, he hurried 
to his wife. 

“ Now, Edie,” he said cheerfully, “ I have come to per- 
suade you to take some food.” 

“ I couldn’t eat. Food would choke me. Let me stay 
here near her.” 

“ But, my darling, you must keep up your strength. 
You’ll break down if you starve yourself. Now that the 
strain is over, nourishment with a little stimulant is just 
what you require: nature must be given the chance of re- 
pairing our forces. Be guided by me, and come down and 
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have some dinner. I won’t urge you to eat more than you 
wish.” 

Edith implored him to go down and dine by himself. 
Later on she would tell the servants to send some food to 
her room. 

“ Very well. Then I won’t bother you. By the way, 
when I wrote to your mother, I said she had better not 
come here. I promised to send her full information. But 
now that it is all over so happily, would you like to have 
her or one of the others with you? There’s no reason why 
they shouldn’t come now.” 

“ Oh, no. I couldn’t see them — or anyone. I couldn’t 
bear it.” 

“All right. But remember now — calmness! Calm- 
ness is the grand thing now.” 

Instead of going into the dining-room, he went back to 
the library. Resuming his seat in the revolving chair, he 
wrote another batch of letters. Then he rang the bell, and 
asked to see his wife’s maid. 

“ Is all quiet upstairs? ” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ And how is her ladyship now ? Does she seem to you 
calmer, more like herself? ” 

“ Yes, sir, I think she does.” 

“ Very good. Take care of her. Do all you can to per- 
suade her to take a little light food, and a glass of wine with 
it, if she will. And then if you could only get her to lie 
down and sleep.” 

“ Yes, I do wish her ladyship would.” 

“ You don’t think she requires me up there? ” 

“ No, sir, I think she seems better by herself.” 

“ All right. I shall come upstairs at ten o’clock.” 

When the maid left the room, he stood thoughtfully 
frowning, and presently looked at his watch. 

21 1 


THE REST CURE 


Twenty-three minutes to nine. He moved rapidly, has- 
tened from the room, and got to work on the telephone. 

Two numbers failed him. He was trying to get in touch 
with the business world again. Another blank; and then a 
lucky number — that of a club in Pall Mall. The dis- 
tant voice said the gentleman is there, in the coffee room, 
probably. 

“ Ask him to speak to me. Very important. I’ll hold 
the line.” 

One minute, two minutes, three minutes gone for ever, 
wasted, dropped stitches from the vast loom of time. 

“Ah! Is that you, Bicknell? Yes, I am John Barnard 
himself. I am more sorry than I can say that I missed our 
appointment this afternoon. Couldn’t help myself. Trouble 
at home — overwhelming anxiety. Have you dined? Ah! 
Well, will you, like a good chap, come across to the Reform, 
and sit with me while I have a mutton chop — and we’ll 
discuss the whole matter over coffee and a cigar. Do — 
like the best of good chaps. We can settle the whole thing 
one way or the other before ten o’clock. I shall have to 
leave you at a quarter to ten. You’re a trump. I feel sure 
you and I will understand each other before we part. Au 
revoir.” And he hung up the receiver. 

“ Here, Williams. Look sharp. Hat. Coat. At the 
Reform Club. Back at ten,” and he hurried out into the 
street. 

It was exactly three minutes to ten when he ran up the 
steps and entered the panic-stricken house. The hall door 
stood wide open ; the servants were watching for his return ; 
Dr. Dykefield was waiting at the foot of the stairs to tell 
him the horrible fact. He had been away little more than 
an hour; and yet, in that small space of time, irreparable 
disaster had befallen him. 


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“ A complication ; a complication not unforeseen, but of 
which there were no indications; a deplorable mischance. 
It was one of those catastrophes which defy all safe- 
guards.” These are preparatory words from Dr. Dyke- 
field, to break the weight of the blow. Then came the 
ghastly, appalling fact. “ The child is dead ! ” 

“ My wife,” Barnard gasped presently. “ My unhappy 
wife. Where’s my wife ? I must be with my wife.” 

Edith was alone in her room; but the room was dark, 
and even when he turned on the electric light, he did not see 
her. 

“Edie! Edie!” 

She was lying on the floor between the bed and the win- 
dow; and a low moaning cry came from her, as she writhed 
face-downwards, with fingers hooked like claws, impotently 
tearing at the carpet. 

“ Edie, my own girl.” 

He raised her in his arms, and the sight of her distorted 
face was so shocking that he nearly let her fall to the floor 
again. Her forehead was bruised, her lips were bleeding, 
her eyes were wildly staring; she struggled fiercely to get 
away from him; and when she spoke, he thought that the 
frenzy of grief had turned into the frenzy of madness. 

“ Edith, my darling, my darling.” 

“ Don’t hold me. Don’t touch me.” 

He put her on the bed that they had shared during most 
of their married life, and she lay again with hidden face, 
moaning and writhing. 

“ Edie, my own love. I’m sorry for you.” 

“ Oh, leave me, oh, leave me. I can’t bear it.” 

“It is bitterly cruel, but we did all that was possible. 
It is fate, a bitterly cruel stroke of fate.” 

“ No, it is God’s hand. It is my punishment. God’s 
judgment upon me — God’s judgment — God’s judgment.” 
213 


XX 


The child lay buried; and with the child, it seemed that 
Edith had buried all the love she bore her husband. 

When the manifestations of hysteria had ceased, and the 
voice of grief had become silent, she declared that she could 
not continue to live with him. Her nerves, she said, had 
completely broken down; she felt very sorry, but the mere 
sight of him was painful to her; he was her husband, her 
master, but if he exercised his rights and held her in bondage 
that had grown to be intolerable, he would kill her. And 
she would welcome death, rather than begin the old life 
again. She appealed to his magnanimity for a release from 
torment. She desired permission to leave London with her 
children, and to reside with them in some quiet and remote 
village. 

Here was trouble on the top of trouble, another domestic 
job of considerable magnitude, one that demanded the firm- 
est tackling. 

He refused to believe for a moment that the estrange- 
ment was of a serious character. He scouted the notion that 
it might prove a lasting separation. 

“ The whole affair,” he told Lady Rathkeale, “ is outside 
reason. If you and the others take it seriously — well, I 
simply can’t discuss it with you. What is my crime? What 
does she allege against me? ” 

“ No crime — nothing,” said Lady Rathkeale earnestly. 
“ You have been the best of husbands. We all tell her so. 
And you are so wise and generous to speak of it lightly. It 
will blow over. I am sure it will.” 

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“ But what in the name of reason is the meaning of it? ” 

“ There is no meaning. It is simply nerves. Everything 
nowadays appears to be contained in that one word — these 
wretched nerves, John.” 

“ But why should weakened nerves make her turn against 
me so suddenly at such a time? Does she think I do not 
grieve, that I feel no sorrow ? ” 

“ One can only guess what she thinks. She is in such a 
pitiable state that she really cannot think properly. We 
all know that you are not to blame. She seems to blame 
herself, quite unreasonably, for not taking alarm quicker 
than she did. If she blames you at all, it is only for being 
out of the way, you know, on the fatal night, at the end. 
That was unfortunate, but, I am sure, quite unavoid- 
able.” 

All her family were his allies ; not one of them would en- 
courage Edith in maintaining so improper an attitude. If 
it lay in the power of her relatives to bring them together 
again, they would not be long apart. 

“ Exactly,” said Lord Rathkeale. “ Too absurd. Not to 
be contemplated — I mean, any severance — or, ah, per- 
manent breach. But, my dear fellow, my wife says, and 
women possess a queer insight about these matters, my wife 
especially — she says, not a doubt that it will blow over.” 

“ So, I hope,” said Barnard, firmly, “ and soon. You of 
course understand that I could not allow the present state of 
things to go on indefinitely.” 

“ Certainly not. Indeed, no. I can assure you, my dear 
fellow, this extraordinary idea of Edith’s has caused us the 
utmost distress — all of us. We are all prepared to argue 
with her. We shall argue with her.” 

“ Yes, do. Please persuade her, among you, that I am not 
a heartless tyrant, but her best friend, as well as the father 
of her children.” 


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“ We shall, we shall. A little time, a little patience, and 
this upset — for it has been a tremendous upset to everybody 
— will be forgotten by both of you, and by us too. But now, 
here is something very curious, as confirming what I said 
about women’s insight. It came upon me like a thunder- 
clap, totally unexpected ; but, do you know, her sister Agatha 
has seen this upset coming for years. It did not in the least 
surprise her. Geraldine, on the other hand, says she be- 
lieved a difference of opinion between you two to be a sheer 
impossibility. We were talking it over last night. I need 
not tell you we talk of nothing else, and Brian took the view 
that—” 

Barnard, with an irritable gesture, interrupted his father- 
in-law. It made him angry to think that his domestic wor- 
ries had been thus taken over by the family ; that his wounded 
pride and jeopardized love were now serving as subjects for 
the family debates; that when the family most regretted the 
alienation of his wife’s affection, they most heartily enjoyed 
the discussion of its causes and consequences. 

He showed slight signs of wrath on this occasion only. At 
all other times he was very kind and very business-like. 

By all means let Edith have a change of air. The whole 
trouble is probably a question of air. Yes, let her go down to 
Setley Court with the family, and see if the surroundings 
of childhood will have a beneficial effect on her spirits. 
But she must not go there at once because Hampshire air 
is not good air, but bad air. Let her go to the seaside for 
bracing air; and then, when she picks up, she may join the 
party at Setley. 

However, before she goes anywhere at all, he must take 
her to a nerve-specialist, the best man, the highest author- 
ity on nerves, whoever he may be. This mysterious matter 
of the nerve-weakness must be examined deeply, to its 
foundation or origin. 


216 


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And before the visit to the specialist, first and foremost, 
there must and shall be an admission, explicit admission, 
that the separation of husband and wife is merely tem- 
porary ; Edith herself must make this admission or submission. 
She is leaving her husband, to search for lost health: as 
soon as she can recover her health, she is to come back to 
her husband. Now let the family use their influence and 
obtain from her the spoken words that are required. 

In less than a week the family did it. Her mother, 
Agatha, Geraldine, and Lady Roscrea, with combined en- 
treaty, prevailed upon her to be so far reasonable. She 
spoke the words. 

“ Jack, let me go, and I promise that I’ll try to do what 
you wish. Only have pity on me, and give me time.” 

“ Very well,” he told Lady Rathkeale. “ We’ll consider 
that settled, and I’ll now make all arrangements. I’ll send 
them down to Brighton, if the nerve-man approves, and 
then she shall come on to you. Meanwhile,” he added, 
abruptly, “ she shall not suffer from my company, since it 
is so distasteful to her. Let Geraldine or Agatha stay here, 
and I’ll get a room at a hotel.” 

“ Really,” said Lady Rathkeale, “ I don’t know how we 
can ever thank you sufficiently for your forbearance. We 
all admire you, and are grateful to you.” 

He asked for advice from people at the Reform Club, the 
House of Commons, the smoking room of his hotel; and, 
after weighing such evidence as he could obtain, came to 
the conclusion that the best nerve-man was a Dr. Ogden 
Smith in Grosvenor Street. 

“ They say he is a chap in the prime of life — not one of 
those old fossils with handles to their names, who are past 
their work, and simply kept going by a reputation they made 
forty years ago.” 

He said this to Miss Fielding, at the offices, and sud- 
217 


THE REST CURE 

denly he burst into an angry condemnation of doctors as a 
class. 

“ I’m sick to death of them. I always hated them, never 
would be bothered with them. And now they have come 
pushing themselves into my life, and I can’t move without 
them. They’re like the priests — black-coated humbugs — 
slowly taking possession of one’s home, getting all round 
one and closing in upon one, taking a man’s life out of his 
own hands, and controlling it, governing it for him, if he is 
fool enough to let them.” 

“ I don’t think you’ll allow yourself to be governed.” 

“ Not if I can help it. Damn them, damn them all. 
They humbugged me about my wife’s confinement — made 
me believe she was dying. They humbugged me about my 
poor little girl — made me believe they were saving her. 
Bungling, lying impostors — yes, the very best of them.” 

Nevertheless, he took his wife to the nerve-man of Gros- 
venor Street. 

He saw the doctor alone first, and briefly but lucidly 
narrated the facts — death of a child to whom both parents 
were devoted, overpowering sorrow of female parent, with 
hysterical disturbances and inexplicable state of mind. 

“ In the plainest terms, my wife has taken a violent dis- 
like to me. And that, I assume, is due to the condition of 
her health. But what I wish to know is this: Shall I 
be on perfectly safe ground if I trust to time to wipe out all 
that?” 

The nerve-man asked a few questions. 

*“ Does your wife, reasonably or unreasonably, attribute 
this sad loss to any negligence on your part? ” 

“ No. I did everything that was humanly possible.” 

“ Just so; you have nothing to reproach yourself with? ” 

“ Certainly not. She doesn’t allege that I was in any 
way* to blame. In fact, at first she seemed to reproach 
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herself, as if she had somehow failed in care. She said it was 
a judgment on her.” 

“ But she had not, so far as you know, been remiss? ” 

“ No; all the other way. But she didn’t know what she 
was saying. She was half-demented.” 

“ Then, if you please, I will now see her.” 

After an interview with the patient, the nerve-man again 
talked with Barnard. 

“ I have asked Lady Edith to be good enough to make 
another appointment with me. To-morrow, shall we say? ” 

“ Oh, very good. But haven’t you formed any opinion 
yet?” 

“ Well, I think there is little doubt that the nervousness 
is the effect of the shock. Naturally, it has been a very 
great shock to both of you. You, as well as she, are show- 
ing the strain to your nerves.” 

“I? Oh, I’m all right. I feel worried about her, but 
otherwise — well, I’m a busy man, too busy to brood over 
my grief, however strongly I feel it.” 

“ In the circumstances I would not advise you to take a 
holiday together; but if you also could go away, by your- 
self—” 

“ Oh, a holiday is out of the question for me.” 

“ I have suggested that Lady Edith should come alone to- 
morrow ; and then if you will kindly call later in the day, I 
will give you my opinion.” 

On the afternoon of the following day Barnard stole an 
hour from his work, and heard Dr. Ogden Smith’s opinion. 

“A good many times in my experience, Mr. Barnard, 
it has. happened that when a new patient has been brought 
to me by some person that I have never seen before, my 
attention has become engaged by that person; and it has 
struck me almost at once that it was the introducer, and not 
the patient, who most needed treatment. Well, you know, 

219 


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that has happened now. I don’t think that Lady 1 pith’s 
nerves are in such an unsatisfactory condition as yours.” 

Barnard got up from his chair, and spoke with extreme 
irritation. 

“ I told you yesterday that I was perfectly well. I have 
asked for your professional advice about my wife — ” 

“And you don’t want it about yourself? Then I won’t 
press it on you further. But you will perhaps forgive me 
for pointing out that your quickness of temper seems to con- 
firm what I have ventured to suggest. As a man of the 
world, you of course understand that I am only doing my 
duty, and yet, without a moment’s reflection, you are vio- 
lently annoyed.” 

“ No, not in the least. If I spoke hastily, it really is 
because I am excessively short of time. Now, about my 
wife? ” 

In Dr. Ogden Smith’s opinion, Lady Edith’s nerves should 
soon recover tone. Brighton would suit her admirably. 
After a month or so she should be all right. 

“ Thank you. That is what I am relying on — time. 
And with regard to her unaccountable feeling toward my- 
self? Time will remove that, I suppose. As her health 
improves, the old feelings, the normal feelings will return? 
I may safely trust to time ? ” 

“ Yes, there, time should help you most of all.” 


XXI 


Time did not help him. 

After a month he ran down to Brighton, and saw his wife 
and children; but he found no signs of returning affection. 
Edith was calm, polite, and grateful; she said the change 
of air had done her worlds of good; she begged him to 
observe the vigorous appearance of the boy and girl. He 
had brought toys for the children, and they thanked him 
shyly for his presents. 

“ Come, Johnnie,” he said, briskly, “ don’t hang your 
head like that. Look up, my boy, while you are speaking. 
Now, Miss Edie, come and give me a kiss. You haven’t 
forgotten your daddy, have you ? ” 

“ Oh, no, daddy,” said the little girl. “ I remember you 
quite well.” 

“ I should hope so. There. What a big bouncing girl 
she is growing ! ” 

When he paid a second visit to Brighton, it seemed that 
the children and their mother had slipped still further away 
from him. 

“Shall we ever come home?” Johnnie asked him, labo- 
riously making conversation when reproached for his dumb- 
ness. 

“ Of course, you will. Do you want to come home? ” 

“ Oh, no,” said the boy. “ I want to go to Setley with 
mother. Setley is grandfather’s house, you know. It is a 
very big house, and there is a very big garden.” 

Barnard, during this second visit, arranged with his wife 
15 221 


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about the move to Hampshire, and invited her to break the 
journey in London. 

“ Edie, oblige me by doing this. Bring them home for a 
few days on your way to Setley.” 

“ It would be so much more convenient to go straight 
through by Portsmouth.’ , 

“ But if I tell you that I really wish it ? ” 

“ Jack, you promised to give me time/’ 

“ And I am keeping my promise. But six weeks are a 
very long time in the life of a child. Already my children 
are beginning to look at me as a stranger. Do you de- 
sire to rob me permanently of their love, because I seem 
temporarily — I say, temporarily — to have forfeited 
yours? 5 5 

“ No, Jack, that shan’t happen. On my honor, I’ll 
guard against that. I talk to them about you constantly. 
I tell them how much gratitude we owe you.” 

“ Gratitude ! ” and he shrugged his shoulders. “ Grat- 
itude is no use to me.” 

But gratitude was what she always spoke of now. 

She drove in the fly with him to the station, and stood 
at the door of the Pullman car until the train began to move. 

“ Good-by,” she murmured in a low voice, “ and God 
bless you for your kindness. You have been very good to 


Did he really wish them back again to disturb the peace 
of the quiet house? 

In his thoughts of her he passed through many phases. 
At first when she had left him he experienced, without ever 
considering its cause, a sensation of relief. An ill-defined 
and spreading oppression had been lifted; escape had been 
secured from an infinite number of trivial difficulties: free- 
dom, ease, an exhilaration given by an increased feeling of 
222 


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power inspired him to stronger efforts and swifter achieve- 
ments. One side of his life had finally gone, and he could 
throw himself into the other side with renewed ardor. 
Nothing now — not an echo of a faintly heard call — to 
distract him from his work. 

Of an evening when he sat in his library, his ears drank 
the delicious nerve-soothing silence with which the house 
seemed suddenly to have been filled. The servants had 
closed all their doors; no footsteps ever sounded in the hall 
or on the stairs; one was not even worried by the knowl- 
edge that beyond the reach of sound, high above one’s head, 
the occupants of upper floors moved fussily about the rooms. 
The nurseries were empty: the splendid silence filled the 
house. 

Late at night when he came into his dressing-room and 
glanced at the narrow little bed, the bareness of the wall, 
the undecorated mantelpiece, he felt a peculiar, unanalyzable 
comfort. Here in this small, plain room was the com- 
plete isolation, the protection from interference, that a real 
worker requires. 

With pleasant vagueness and diffused contentment, he 
thought of himself as a general, a great commander on a 
campaign, who plans vast battles, who holds the fate of 
nations in his strong hands, and who lies down to sleep on 
such a bed as this. Guard his sleep, keep out intruders, and 
to-morrow he will rise, to shake kings from their thrones, 
to make fire his servant and death his slave. And he 
thought of his own campaign, the world-battle that he too 
was waging. Big things, enormous things, unmeasurable 
immensities were opening out before him. 

His thoughts had become grandiosely indefinite, and he 
let them carry him on. There is nothing so tremendous, 
if it be thinkable, that he cannot achieve, now that he stands 
quite alone. 


223 


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Almost every day he talked to Miss Fielding of new 
schemes and further developments. 

“ Last night I wasn’t able to sleep ; but I can tell you, 
I didn’t waste the time. Till morning I was turning things 
over in my mind, and I believe I have got the hang of that 
amalgamation.” 

The recent flotation, with Mr. Bicknell won over and 
loyally assisting, had been in all respects successful ; and now 
Barnard proposed to address himself to the reconstruction 
and amalgamation of a large group of the old companies. 
Shares to be split, some fresh shares to be issued, profits 
to be taken by any original shareholders who wished to get 
out: it would be a perfectly genuine operation, with no 
undue inflation of capital. But the adjustment of con- 
flicting interests, the settling or apportioning of contingent 
claims, would certainly render it an arduous task. 

Barnard declared that the task, however arduous, should 
be accomplished before the summer came to an end. 

“ Trust me', young lady,” he said, gayly. “ Leave J. B. 
to his unfettered discretion. I can do it. I can do it — 
on my head. Though, mind you, this will mean extra 
work for you, heavy work, till we are through with it. 
You are indispensable to me. I couldn’t get on without 
you.” 

“ Oh, what nonsense,” said Miss Fielding, and she 
blushed and smiled. “ Anybody could do all I do for you.” 

“No; no one. You know my ways. You don’t worry 
me. What was I saying? ” 

“ About the amalgamation ? ” 

“Yes. Well, I have nothing to worry me now,” and he 
stood on the hearth-rug, and stretched his arms. 

“ Once or twice lately I have felt thoroughly rattled — 
as though the devil was driving me. And the faster I was 
driven, the slower I went. But now I shall travel like — 
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like the Brighton express. My wife is leaving Brighton. 
Did I mention that? Very well. I am alone at Bucking- 
ham Gate, and shall be for a few weeks — possibly longer.” 
He paused, strolled to the window, and looked out. “ What 
was I saying ? ” 

“ The amalgamation ? ” 

“Yes. Trust me for that. Circumstances have placed 
an unusual amount of time at my disposal, and that is how 
I -will employ it. Then everything will be ship-shape in 
case of accidents. Union is strength. We shall be firmer 
when consolidated. I never said it would be easy. It will 
be another struggle. But I shall discover the factor of 
advantage, and ensure success. I owe every success to my 
factors of advantage.” 

“ Factors of — ? I don’t quite understand.” 

“Shall I tell you? Yes, I will.” And he laughed and 
snapped his fingers. “ This is my secret. I am going to 
tell you something that I have never told anyone — not 
even my wife. 

“ Very well. It was a flash of light that came to me 
when I first grasped Darwin’s theory of natural selection — 
the struggle for existence — of how, if some slight check is 
removed, the species immediately flourishes. From that, I 
thought of business strife and how only a very slight ad- 
vantage was required to give success over rivals. It was 
light. And thenceforth I held firmly to this idea — to 
find the factor of advantage in each enterprise. Are you 
following me? ” 

Miss Fielding was listening with rapt attention, and 
watching his face admiringly. 

“ Yes, I follow you perfectly.” 

“ Clever girl ! Well, when I read biographies, I always 
came upon the thing — at the foundation of all fortunes. 
Don’t you know, the apprentice who spotted a waste, or 
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invented an economy, and secured for his employers the 
small pull over everybody else in the struggle. 

“ Now, when I was in Ceylon, thinking for the first time 
about the possibilities of rubber, this was the light that 
guided me. Generally in colonial and foreign enterprises, 
the company promoter with his money is in one place and 
all the knowledge is in another. Then success would lie 
in the combination of local knowledge and the business 
power in one man. They are nearly always two, and, how- 
ever clever the London man, his dependence on men with 
knowledge of the facts handicaps him ; but I — I, John 
Barnard, would be independent, self-contained, the knowl- 
edge and the power rolled into one. I saw at once that 
this would be the factor of advantage in the struggle, and 
I came back to England as certain of success as if I was 
looking behind me instead of in front of me. Do you fol- 
low ? I saw the success coming — not as big as it really 
is, but still colossal ” 

He came from the window, and laid his hand heavily on 
Miss Fielding’s arm. 

“Now, get on. To work — to work. You have made 
me chatter more than enough.” 

“Yes,” said Miss Fielding, looking up at him with a 
gratified smile. “You have been talking a lot, haven’t you? 
You seem in such high spirits this morning.” 

He was entering into another phase. The strange ex- 
altation of mind that made him waste precious time by 
vain gloriously haranguing his secretary had now disap- 
peared. The sense of freedom, too, was almost lost. On 
some days he did his work without the least pleasure: he 
would not confess the fact to anybody, but during the 
warmer weather of May and June he felt a difficulty in 
riveting his attention to the matters on which he was en- 
226 


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gaged. Mentally, he' drifted away from the stuffy, airless 
room, and wandered through open spaces toward distant 
horizons. And when his thoughts thus for a few min- 
utes played truant, and with an effort he recalled them to 
their stale and wearisome task, they broke bounds again, 
and, restricting the vagrant flight, carried him swiftly to 
this outstanding trouble of a truant wife. 

It was beginning to worry him. This matter of the 
strained relations with his wife was an untidy, unfinished bit 
of business. It was a small patch of chaos in the midst of 
an orderly universe; it was petty failure marring wide- 
spread success; trifling in itself, it might, if disregarded, 
gradually encroach upon vastly larger and more serious 
concerns. 

Suddenly on a Saturday afternoon he called for the 
A. B. C. guide, and looked up trains to Setley. He found 
that he could go there and get back to London by mid- 
night. Acting upon the impulse of the moment, he deter- 
mined that before nightfall he would see his wife and 
children. 

Perhaps he might not obtain another chance for months. 
The idea had been a happy inspiration. Immediately he 
despatched a telegram to Edith, telling her to expect him; 
and within an hour’s time he had started on his jour- 
ney. 

In the train he slept long and deeply, and when he woke 
he was breathing the soft and pleasant air that he had 
breathed as a boy. This was the other side of Hampshire, 
thirty miles from his old home at Willingford; but the 
air was the same, the gentle, languorous air that makes people 
muse and dream instead of act and fight. 

From the station a shabby old fly brought him, between 
down and fields, through beech woods and fir plantations, to 
the lodge gates of Setley Court. He smiled as he drove 
227 


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across the park. He had thought just now of his. own old 
home, and it would amuse him to get this glimpse of the 
much-praised, much-loved home of Edith’s childhood. 

Really it was but a glimpse. Edith was alone, waiting 
for him in a shadowy old room, and she led him through 
a window to the garden. His son and daughter were pro- 
duced, and they very shyly greeted him ; and then he walked 
with his wife, politely inquiring about her health, politely 
admiring the pretty flowers, the smooth turf, the clipped 
yews. 

“ The children love it,” said Edith. 

Certainly it was beautiful in the evening light of this 
warm June day. He leaned his arm upon a balustrade, 
and looked about him. The reposeful mass of the house 
threw its shadow over the brick terraces to the water; and 
in the yellow sunlight a punt with a girl in it passed slowly 
among water lilies, and glided from their sight beneath an 
arch. 

“ That was Geraldine,” said Edith. “ She loves it.” 

It all impressed him strangely. It was absolutely new to 
him, a life and a setting to life that he had never known. 
He felt as if he had come into another world, a placid, 
gracious dreamland. And his wife belonged to it; as she 
told him, she had been born in dreamland. 

“ I think why I love it so much is because I was brought 
up here.” 

Johnnie and his sister, in charge of a governess, came 
down some steps and crossed a bridge. He watched them 
hurrying away. They were further from him than they had 
been at Brighton. They were going from him; they had 
nearly gone. 

“ Edith, my dear, I understand the soothing influence of 
early associations.” His voice was lower, and he spoke 
less rapidly and decisively. Something of the dreamy peace 
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was creeping into his tone. “ And it is a most beautiful 
place. I can’t wonder that you are all fond of it.” 

“ No, can you, Jack? We think Father looks ten years 
younger since he came here. Don’t ask me to leave it — 
please ” 

As they walked on again, she inquired about his work. 
She said she read his speeches in the House of Commons. 
By words and manner she showed him the courteous defer- 
ence due to a distinguished stranger who had honored her 
with an afternoon call. 

And he, listening, felt as though he had truly been a 
stranger. In her black dress she seemed taller and thinner 
than his Edith ; there was a difference in the carriage of the 
head; the pale face had a settled, fixed expression that was 
new to him. 

There was a dream-like quality in their whole inter- 
view. She was his wife, and yet not his wife. Substance 
had dissolved ; only an outward form remained. And when 
he glanced from her to the solid front of the old house, the 
buttressed walls above the gliding water, and the stretch- 
ing slopes of sun-lit meadow, it seemed that these too were 
but empty appearances and not concrete realities. 

The curious dream-like character of this thought gave 
him a transient discomfort. It was as if unexpectedly he 
had caught a view of some dim, unexplored country which 
had been close to him always and yet from which he had 
always been shut out. 

At the end of the terrace, he shook his head and raised 
his arms, as if trying to rouse himself from the dream. 

“ You know, Edie, this really is nonsense. It is just 
this. You are my wife. How long are you going to 
forget it ? ” 

“ I don’t forget it. You have been very good to me in 
letting me stay here.” 


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“ But what is to be the end of it? ” 

Then she pleaded for more time, indefinite time. 

“ Edie, be reasonable. Anyone would tell you that you 
are treating me unfairly. What is my crime, my real 
crime? You know, a wife can’t send her husband to 
Coventry all in a minute. You and I are bound together. 
Our children bind us — two living links that can’t be 
broken.” 

She began to tremble, and he guessed that she was think- 
ing of the dead child. 

“ Edie, my dear girl, it can’t go on for ever. There 
must be an end to it.” 

And again she implored him to allow her more time. 

“ Jack, it would kill me if you made me begin it all 
again — our dreadful London life, together in that house, 
so soon, so soon after what I suffered there.” 

He looked at his watch presently, and found that he must 
go, if he meant to catch the train. He refused Lady Rath- 
keale’s pressing invitation to stay to dinner, to stay the 
night, to stay till Monday. 

He was aware of the placidly correct attitude of all the 
family. They had allowed him unrestricted access to his 
wife; they had kept out of his way; they had displayed an 
unshaken confidence that he would not say or do anything 
uncouth or improper, that, no matter how severely his good 
nature might be tried, he would never be harsh or unkind to 
Edith. 

But they appeared after the interview, seeming to know 
instinctively that the business talk was over, coming through 
the dark old rooms to smile at him and squeeze his hand 
with friendly welcome. 

They formed a group outside the porch; and waved to 
him as he drove away in his fly, out of dreamland, back 
toward his own world. 


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Time was not helping him. 

He had passed into another phase, and the worrying 
thoughts about the break-up of his home were now becoming 
dominant. 

He had begun to miss his wife. Somehow, mysteriously, 
the brief snatches of love, the hurried and scamped domes- 
tic pleasures, had been useful to him. Strange as it might 
seem, that side of his life supported the other side. With- 
out it, as background or carrying base, the business activ- 
ities were languishing. Perhaps the perpetual anxiety to 
escape from interferences and impediments had served to 
sharpen the zest for his work — was, in fact, a constant 
stimulus. Stolen joys are sweet. How often he had felt 
that he was stealing time from his wife to give it to the 
work! Perhaps the little checks and hindrances, thus con- 
verted by his will into goads and impetuses, were necessary 
to his mental welfare. Now, with his whole time available, 
he appeared to be doing less, rather than more work. With 
friction and resistance evaded, the springs of energy seemed 
badly wound up and feebler than of old. 

He was restless and sleepless at night. The pacifying 
charms of his small room had lost efficacy; he tossed and 
turned on the narrow little bed; and hour after hour his 
thoughts swung fast, in expanding and contracting circles, 
round the central fixed spot that was formed by memories of 
Edith. 

During the day, he thought of her while pretending to 
think of other things. Vivid recollection of her in a mo- 
ment filled the thought-area, and, by contrast with its 
brightness and strength, made all other recollections 
colorless and faint. At last he confessed to himself 
that this too absorbing idea was most troublesome in its 
nature. 

On one occasion when he handed a leaflet of scribbled 
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notes to Miss Fielding, she pointed out to him that he had 
omitted something important from his instructions. 

“ Let me see it again. Yes, you are quite right. Most 
important. I intended to write it down, but I wasn’t 
thinking. Or I was bothering about another matter. I 
forgot. I just forgot.” 

“ I noticed that your mind seemed occupied with some- 
thing else.” 

“ Yes,” he said, fretfully. “ I am bothered to death 
sometimes. It is putting me off my work. I assure you, 
my dear girl, my dear girl — I say, what’s your name? ” 

Miss Fielding, taking the corrected notes back to her 
desk, turned and looked at him with a puzzled expression. 

“ My name? Well, my name is Grace.” 

“Grace! It’s a pretty name. But Grace what?” 

u Grace Fielding, of course.” 

“ All right. Then get on, Grace Fielding. Don’t let 
me be interrupted. I must get on myself.” 

Later in the day Miss Fielding ventured to ask a ques- 
tion. 

“ Mr. Barnard. This morning, were you chaffing, or 
had you really for the moment forgotten my name? ” 

“ For the moment I think I had really forgotten.” 

“ But Mr. Barnard,” and the young woman spoke anx- 
iously and timidly. “ That’s not at all like you. A lapse 
of memory of that kind isn’t natural. I’m certain it’s a 
symptom of overwork. It means you are doing too much, 
and you certainly ought to go to a doctor.” 

“ No, I’ll be hanged if I will. Confound the doctors, 
that’s what I say. I’ve had a stomachful of doctors. The 
chap I took my wife to see tried to get at me.” 

Miss Fielding, with anxious interest, ventured to ask two 
or three more questions, and begged her employer not to 
ignore the necessity of care in regard to his health. 

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“ My dear girl, I am thoroughly well, never was better. 
But there is something worrying me, incessantly worrying 
me.” , 

“ Will you tell me what it is? I wish you would.” 

“ It is my wife.” 

And then Barnard told Miss Fielding all about the 
untidy, incomplete state of his domestic affairs. 

There was a comfort in speaking of his trouble ; and Miss 
Fielding, of all people in the world, was the person who 
could best act as a safety valve, and most easily assist him to 
lower the internal thought-pressure. Custom made him re- 
gard her simply as a faithful machine, a piece of intelligent 
mechanism that he might and did handle precisely as he 
pleased ; neither her presence nor her absence disturbed 
him; he never noticed when she came into or went out 
of his room. It was only when he needed her aid, that 
he was aware of her existence. And when he wanted 
her, she was always there. She had never failed him in his 
need. 

Speaking to her now, it was as if he spoke to himself. He 
walked about the room, waved his arms, frowned, stamped 
his foot, with the freedom of one soliloquizing. He glanced 
at her from time to time; and by an echo of his last words, 
a nod of the head or a sympathetic sigh, she kept him going. 
Otherwise, he might as well have been addressing the chairs 
and tables. 

“ So now, you see,” the pressure was sensibly reduced, 
“ so now, Grace Fielding, you see where the shoe pinches. 
And you won’t be surprised that I think about it night and 
day.” 

“ Yes, but don’t let it worry you so much.” 

“ My good girl, if you knew what you were talking 
about, you wouldn’t come out pat with that sort of parrot’s 
advice.” 


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“ I’m very sorry, Mr. Barnard. It does seem such a 
pity.” 

“ Pity ! Of course it’s a pity. It’s a gigantic annoy- 
ance. But, anyhow, that’s enough said. Now you’ll un- 
derstand that, with all this on my mind, I don’t want 
humbugging doctors feeling my pulse or looking at my 
tongue.” 

After this first conversation he often returned during 
office hours to the subject of his intimately private affairs. 
Abandoning himself to an egotism of which he was quite 
unconscious, he made Miss Fielding follow him through 
every transition of his changing thought. 

“You know — here’s another danger that has only just 
occurred to me. If I am not very careful, this is going to 
bring ridicule and contempt on me.” 

“ Oh, no,” said Miss Fielding, sympathetically. “ Noth- 
ing would ever make you ridiculous.” 

“I am not so sure about that. I have plenty of enemies. 
No man ever had real success without exciting envy. 
There are thousands of people who would be jolly glad to 
see me get a set-back of any kind. This thing will leak 
out; and then, wherever I go, there’ll be nods and grins 
behind my back. ‘ Have you heard the news? John Bar- 
nard’s wife has got sick of him, refuses to live with him, 
says her nerves won’t stand him.’ Then the usual lies 
will begin to circulate, infernal slanderous tales invented 
by my enemies to injure me. 4 Have you heard the scandal 
about John Barnard? His wife has run away from him. 
He is willing to take her back, but he can’t find her. They 
give out that she is living with her parents in the country, 
but the fact is : she has disappeared.’ ” 

A storm of irritation swept through his mind, as he 
conjured up this new and as yet unexperienced form of 
annoyance. 


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“ I’ll tell you what it is. I shall have to put my foot 
down. I must tackle the family. They are all full of 
excuses and apologies: ‘Oh, thank you, John. We think 
you so indulgent, John,’ but, between you and me and the 
post, I am not at all sure that they are playing a square game 
with me. For all I know, their influence may really be 
working against me instead of for me.” 

And then, as he picked up his hat and clapped it on the 
back of his head, he exploded in loud-voiced indignation. 

“ It’s tommy rot,” he said, noisily and rapidly. “ It’s 
tommy rot. I’m not going to stand such nonsense. Be 
damned to it. Be damned to it.” 

“ If you speak so loud, they’ll hear you — outside.” 

“ Very well.” And he stood with his hands in his 
pockets, and stared gloomily at the empty fireplace. 

“ But don’t you think I’m right? ” He said this without 
lifting his eyes, in a low, brooding tone. “ Would you put 
up with such nonsense? What do you think yourself? ” 

“ I think,” said Miss Fielding, earnestly, “ it is a 
thousand pities that anything should upset you so terribly as 
this is doing.” 

The great scheme of amalgamation was progressing very 
slowly. Miss Fielding toiled early and late; it was not her 
fault if things did not go quickly and well; all details to 
which a subordinate can attend were settled with decisive 
promptness. If the main threads in a complicated nego- 
tiation became tangled and confused, the cause of the mud- 
dle must be explained by the vacillating movements of the 
master hand. 

One morning John Barnard plainly recognized that his 
work was lessening in volume and deteriorating in quality. 
Miss Fielding pointed out more mistakes. He had made 
a stupid blunder in dealing with an accountant’s report. 
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He had failed to foresee an obvious combination of events. 
He had left out of consideration an adverse chance, against 
which full provision might easily have been obtained. 
Three thumping mistakes ! 

“Yes. Thank you. Much obliged. But I know the 
reason very well: I wasn’t really giving my mind to it.” 

“If you are preoccupied, shall we let it stand over for 
the present? ” 

“Yes,” he said, thoughtfully. “Let it stand over till 
the afternoon. I’ll tackle it then. Look here, what do 
you think of this? A few days ago I wrote a long letter 
to my wife, a long chatty letter, quite in my old style, not 
an unkind word in it. But this was the important part of 
it. I told her that I was keeping up our establishment 
exactly as before — of course at a large expense. Not a 
servant dismissed, and so on. And I put it to her, on the 
score of economy and common sense, that she ought to come 
back and use the establishment — even if our relations 
remained unchanged. You see, I want to get her home. 
We can postpone the solution of our problem, if only she’ll 
consent to come home. Well, what do you think is her 
answer? ” 

“ I can’t guess.” 

“ She begs me to reduce expenses by dismissing some of 
the servants: says I’d better keep only those I require for 
myself. That’s flat, isn’t it ? That means she doesn’t 
intend to return of her own free will. She wont return, 
unless she is made to return. Look here. I am going out. 
I must think this over. I’ll be back in an hour or so.” 

He strolled along the Embankment, pausing now and 
then in the shade of the plane trees, and idly watching the 
barges and steam tugs as they passed eastward on the flood- 
ing water. All about him there were movements, chang- 
ing forms, and blended colors; and his thoughts, as if in- 
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fluenced by sense-impressions, had a kaleidoscopic instability, 
swiftly shaping and reshaping themselves, springing into 
vivid definiteness or falling into meaningless vagueness. 

There came, unsummoned, unexpected, a thought about 
his life, and, until the thought fell to pieces, he imagined 
his life to be figured or symbolized as a spacious mansion, 
which possessed immense cellars that he had rarely en- 
tered. Now these unused vaults had been filled in; all was 
solid, from the level of the ground to the pinnacled roof, 
and dry rot was spreading upward, tainting and poisoning the 
air. The house of life had been wholesome to dwell in: 
now it was dangerous and deadly. The house had seemed 
strongly built: now it was crumbling into dust. 

Then, without his control or guidance, the thought dis- 
integrated and changed itself to flashing pictures of his 
home — now this room, now that room. And then slowly a 
thought of Edith presented itself, submitted itself to his 
direction, and he sank into a self-centered and most absorb- 
ing reverie. 

He wanted his wife — but why? Every day, every hour, 
he was becoming more uncomfortable because of the grow- 
ing want. It might perhaps be nothing but a habit, a habit 
so firmly established that it could not safely be broken. 
Leaving love out of consideration, the million threads of 
custom had been woven about him and her in eight long 
years. 

It was not love, at least, certainly not the love that is 
fed by passion and finds expression in anything but inter- 
mittent and swiftly satisfied desire. The strongest form 
of love he had proved to be impossible as something coex- 
istent with the ardor and delights of his work. The love 
and the work were irreconcilably hostile, one to the other; 
between them there could be no truce; one must perish for 
the other to survive. He remembered that kind of love — 
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16 


THE REST CURE 


the fever of his courtship, and the total extinction of his 
working power while the fever lasted. 

It was not the settled affection that requires a constant 
companionship to sustain itself. That too he had willingly 
surrendered. Was there nothing beyond the cumulative 
force of custom? 

Perhaps this is a law which we instinctively obey, even 
when we seem most eagerly to emancipate ourself from its 
limitations. Love in its ultimate essence is stronger than 
life. Without some sort of love in each life, an aridness 
and emptiness spreads and extends until the sources of action 
are dried up; and, like a fertile plain buried beneath the 
sands of the desert, life becomes death-in-life. 

Looking back into his own life, he saw that it had always 
been there — love of some sort, however slight and unsub- 
stantial. He had never been without it till now. First there 
had been love of parents, brother, and sister, demands upon 
emotional effort, which he had rigidly suppressed; then the 
shallow surface love, lightly given by girls and women, 
transient joys that he had rarely solicited and speedily cur- 
tailed; then the overpowering fascination of love, the long- 
ing for one woman out of all womankind, the glorious bliss 
of the union, a rapture that he had soon exhausted; and 
then the calming peace of marriage, home, fatherhood. 
Always something there, from adolescence onwards — the 
something of warm and intimate joy that lay within his 
power, that he may take or neglect as he pleased. And now 
— nothing. Blankness, emptiness, darkness. He thought 
of himself as a live man cut off from the essence of life; a 
wretch doomed to suffer a loss against which the most abject 
are protected; an outcast from human sympathy, a fruitless, 
impotent thing forsaken by the universe. 

This was the course of his reverie, out of which he emerged 
swelling with self-pity, throbbing with indignation. 

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He got up from a bench under the plane trees, and walked 
fast. The vagueness of his thoughts passed away; they 
concentrated themselves again in a business-like fashion upon 
the triply logical basis of the trouble. He wanted his 
wife ; she was necessary to him ; he could not get on without 
her. 

Miss Fielding, seated at the table in his room, was busily 
writing when he returned to Arundel Street. She glanced 
at him inquiringly. 

“You have been away longer than I expected. Did you 
lunch at the club ? ” 

“ No. Anybody been here? ” 

“ Yes, one or two people. But there’s nothing that I need 
trouble you with. Mr. Barnard, I hope you had some 
luncheon somewhere.” 

“ No. I don’t feel hungry.” 

He sat down at the other side of the large desk, and 
with idle fingers softly drummed upon the pad of clean 
blotting-paper. 

“ While I was out,” he said, presently, “ I made up my 
mind. I’m going to put my foot down. I’m tired of it. 
Yes, I have telegraphed to her father, asking him to come 
up here and see me to-morrow without fail. Then I 
shall speak straight. It will be easier to tackle him than 
her.” 

“ But what do you wish him to do? ” 

“ To make her understand that it isn’t fair to me, and — 
well, that I won’t stand it. As an old married man, he 
ought to be able to convince her. He and the old lady 
between them must do it. Mother and father, you know: 
she puts them above her husband. Perhaps she’ll listen to 
them, if they say it isn’t fair. Well, what do you think? 
Do you think I have decided wisely?” 

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Miss Fielding glanced at him, then lowered her head and 
went on writing. 

“ I am afraid,” she said; as she blotted a sheet, “ that I am 
not capable of advising.” 

“ No, I suppose you aren’t. You’re not married, so you 
can’t understand what all this implies — to a man. But 
what I mean when I say it is so deucedly unfair to me, is this : 
underlying the marriage state there is a habit. That’s what 
I was thinking about just now — a habit, you know. 
Even bad husbands get accustomed to lean on their wives, 
unconsciously, quite unconsciously, in a thousand different 
ways. Even when they are unfaithful, they still couldn’t 
do without their wives, I dare say. But I have been a good 
husband, a very good husband. My wife’s people would 
tell you so.” 

He was talking more to himself than to her. He did not 
wait for answers or sympathetic nods of the head; he went 
on talking interminably, explaining why, and exactly why 
he required his wife. 

“ But there,” he said at last, “ you can’t advise me. So 
I’ll advise you. When you marry, Miss Fielding, don’t you 
make a fool of your husband.” 

“ Oh, I shall never marry,” and Miss Fielding laughed, 
shyly. 

“Why not?” 

“ No one will ever want to marry me.” 

“ Rubbish. Your turn will come,” and he looked at her 
with careless good nature. “ Of course it will. I’m sure 
I wonder it hasn’t come already. You’re quite attractive 
enough,” and he continued to examine her critically. 

The color rose in Miss Fielding’s face, and she moved 
uneasily in her chair. 

“What are you blushing for? ” And he began to laugh. 

“ Really,” said Miss Fielding, pushing back the hair from 
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her forehead, “ you’ll make me quite uncomfortable, if you go 
on looking at me like that. It is as if you had never seen me 
before.” 

“ All right. Then I’ll look another way.” 

He got up, went to the fireplace, and lit a cigarette. 

“ I’m off my smoke even. This is the first time I have 
smoked for two days. Very refreshing.” 

And, taking rapid inhalations, he blew out cloud upon 
cloud. “ Don’t bother your head about me. Go on with 
your work. I can’t work to-day.” 

Truly, it was as if he had never seen her before. While 
she meekly toiled, he looked at her now and again with in- 
creasing attention. 

He remembered her as a skinny, immature girl, with a 
bad complexion and big frightened eyes, behind which flashed 
a quickness of intelligence that he had been clever enough 
to detect at once. And this image of an anaemic face and 
an undeveloped figure had apparently been retained by him 
as the likeness of the external object, while under his eyes 
the object itself had changed totally. He had not noticed 
or recorded any change whatever until now. 

It was wonderful how she had filled out. She offered 
to the seeing eye, instead of sharpness and angularity, 
rounded curves, firm swelling surfaces, wherever one looked. 
He observed the even smoothness of her neck, not a hollow 
visible — as it bent from the neat little muslin collar ; the 
outline of her cheek, too, had a similar fullness, and her 
shoulders were well covered with flesh. Her waist, in the 
stooping attitude, seemed small; but that was probably a 
deceptive aspect occasioned by his point of view. Well, 
here was somebody who had thriven in his society. Hard 
work and long hours hadn’t hurt her. 

Thinking gratefully of how well she had served him, he 
was glad to recognize so satisfactory though startling a de- 
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velopment from youthful incompleteness to the healthy di- 
mensions of maturity. 

While he lit another cigarette he was looking at her hair. 
That also indicated health and vigor. The reddish brown 
masses drawn backward over her ears were lighter of tint 
than the coils bound in the shape of a coronet, but it was 
nice strong hair, all of it; with a natural wave, and none 
of the frizzy brittleness which tells of the tongs and the 
curling clip. 

Glancing at her reflectively, he began to weave her into 
his thoughts of other things. All these changes in his un- 
noticed secretarial machine had occurred since his marriage. 

“ Miss Fielding,” he asked abruptly, “ didn’t you first 
come here about the time I married ? ” 

“Yes. They told me you were just back from your 
honeymoon.” 

“ How long ago was that? ” 

“ More than eight years.” 

“ More than eight years,” he said, musingly. “ Man and 
wife for eight years — more than eight years.” 

When she got up and went out of the room, he looked at 
her again. 

She was not in the least fat or heavy. There was a 
pleasant easiness in the movement of her limbs; she seemed 
sufficiently tall to carry the firm shoulders and large hips 
not ungracefully; her waist now appeared to be really slen- 
der; the black blouse and the muslin collar had a becoming 
simplicity, and the short brown skirt was very plain and 
neat. Noticing her brown shoes and stockings, he smiled. 

“ A scheme of color,” he thought, “ to match her hair. 
How artfully these women dress themselves — the proudest 
and the humblest of them! Edith knew that mauve and 
purple suited her. She never wore a color that didn’t suit 
her style of beauty.” 


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It was the end of the official day when Miss Fielding 
came into the room again. Barnard had been absolutely 
idle. 

“ Shall I shut the desk? Mr. Barnard, may I shut the 
desk? ” 

“ Yes, shut it. I’m going.” 

Then he put his hands on her shoulders and held her, as 
he had once held his wife, at arms’ length before him. 

“ Mr. Barnard, I wish you wouldn’t do it.” 

“ Do what? Don’t be so silly. I want to have a good 
look at you, and I mean to have it.” 

“ I wish you’d let me shut the desk.” 

“ Hold up your head. What is it? You silly girl, are 
you afraid to look me in the face ? ” 

She raised her chin, and her lips opened in a constrained 
smile. 

“ Why, your eyes are made to match the dress, too. 
Hazel eyes, I suppose you’d call them. I like the speckled 
color on the light brown. Very nice eyes. Good red lips. 
And strong teeth.” 

She laughed, and did not attempt to release herself. 

“ How utterly absurd you are, Mr. Barnard. You are 
like the wolf in Red Riding Hood ; but you are saying what 
Red Riding Hood said — not the wolf. ‘ What great teeth 
you have ! 5 ” 

“Yes, and what a nice white skin!” He turned from 
her, and moved toward the door. “ It’s incredible — the 
work of time. Time is the master worker. Time beats 
us all.” 

“ Time fights for us, too.” 

“ Yes, time has helped you. I wouldn’t have believed it 
possible. Eight years! And you were a pasty, reddish 
sort of shrimp, always sniffling, crying if one spoke to you.” 

“ Yes, I did cry.” 


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‘‘Was I unkind to you? I didn’t mean it.” 

“ No, you were never unkind. But I was so terribly 
afraid of you.” 

“ And aren’t you afraid of me now? ” 

“ No — at least, not in the same way.” 

“ Well, I have told you what you were like then . And 
now — but you know all about that. Time has helped 
you. Yes,” he said, sadly and wearily, “ you ll marry, my 
girl. Someone will soon take you away from me, and I 
shall miss you infernally. I shall never get anyone who 
understands me as you do. But I mustn’t be selfish. Good 
luck to you in your married life: better luck than I have 
had.” 

And he went moodily and slowly through the clerks’ 
office to the stairs. 

He had been gone ten minutes when Miss Fielding came 
out of his room. She was sniffling, and blowing her nose and 
wiping her eyes, exactly as she used to do in the old days of 
her novitiate. He had somehow made her cry again. 

Next day he saw Lord Rathkeale, and spoke his mind in 
the straightest possible fashion. 

“ I must call upon you,” he said, “ to assist me to get my 
wife back. This has gone on long enough, and I don’t mean 
it to go on any longer.” 

“ I know,” said Lord Rathkeale, feebly, “ how painfully it 
has dragged on, when you, and all of us, expected it would 
end almost at once. But still, my dear fellow, I wouldn’t 
be in a hurry to — ” 

“ A hurry ! After putting up with the nonsense for half 
a year ! It must end now. I want you to understand that, 
and to assist me.” 

“ With all my heart. We have never ceased to argue — 
all of us — that — ” 


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“ I am sure you all mean well. But you and your family 
are abetting her. With the best intentions you are pulling 
us further apart, instead of drawing us together. Frankly, 
I don’t intend to allow it to go on. If it does go on, I must 
reconsider my position.” 

And he hinted that by this business phrase he was issuing 
what he intended to be at once a threat and an ultimatum. 
Contracts in which one party forgets or ignores all obliga- 
tions are contracts that may be annulled by the other party. 
Wives who refuse to fulfill their wifely duties can be got rid 
of altogether by neglected husbands. 

Lord Rathkeale was shocked and alarmed. 

“ But surely, my dear fellow, you who have always been 
so indulgent to her wouldn’t dream of taking arbitrary 
measures.” 

“ I shall take whatever measures are necessary.” 

“ But it would be too dreadful. Really, not to be thought 
of, conduct not in character with your disposition, and your 
knowledge of the world.” 

Lord Rathkeale seemed very much alarmed by the ulti- 
matum, and yet unable to believe that a respected and ad- 
mired son-in-law, that an honorary member of the family 
could in any circumstances turn against the family and be 
nasty to the family. 

But there was an undoubtedly nasty tone in John Bar- 
nard’s final words. 

“ You had better make her understand clearly that under 
no conditions will I give up my children. I must have them 
back, even if I give up my wife.” 

Lord Rathkeale had promised that he would exert his 
influence to the uttermost. All the influence gathered 
under the old roofs of Setley should be brought to bear on 
one of its inmates. 


245 


THE REST CURE 


But after two or three days he wrote, regretfully, to say 
that, although he had tried hard, he had failed to achieve 
the desired result. 

“ Edith begs for more time. I have done all I 
could; and on my honor I believe that a little more 
time will overcome her reluctance. She asks for three 
months. If you can so far extend your indulgence, we 
shall all of us be lastingly grateful. And if I may 
venture to counsel you, you will be wise as well as 
generous in postponing pressure for this extra three 
months.” 

“ I decline to wait. John Barnard.” 

“ There. That’s my answer.” With a shaking hand he 
passed the telegraph form across his table to Miss Fielding. 

“ Is it fair?” he asked, loudly. “ Isn’t it damnably un- 
fair? I won’t put up with it! ” and he wiped the perspira- 
tion from his forehead. 

It was an oppressively warm evening, and the atmosphere 
of the office room seemed like that of a bakehouse when the 
oven fires have been raked out and a hot choking dust floats 
towards the open door. 

He was almost choking from indignation; and his voice 
broke, as if he was about to shed tears of self-pity. 

“ You can see for yourself.” The words burst from him 
in an angry shout. “You can see how the thing has af- 
fected my nerves. It has utterly spoiled my work. It has 
shaken me, weakened me, played the devil with me.” 

“ Don’t speak so loud.” 

“Very well. But off that goes. Send it immediately. 
Let them know my answer.” 

He sat moodily staring at the white blotting-paper, and 
when he spoke again, it was in a low, querulous voice. 

“ Habit! Very good. So be it, but I can’t get on with- 
out my wife.” 


246 


THE REST CURE 


“ Oh! ” 

Miss Fielding had risen from her chair, and pushed it 
violently away. She was pulling at her muslin collar, as 
though the dusty air had begun to suffocate her. 

“ Yes,” he said, “ you think I’m foolish to make such a 
fuss. But the fact remains — it amounts to this: I must 
have some woman in my life.” 

“ But you talk — ” and with both hands she clutched the 
front of her blouse, “ you talk as if there was only one 
woman in the world — the woman who isn’t worthy to untie 
your shoelaces.” 

Old Rathkeale did not receive any telegram that evening; 
but on the morrow he was overjoyed by the brief contents 
of a letter from his son-in-law. 

“ Edith,” wrote Barnard, “ can have her three months. 
Tell her that she shall be left in peace. I promise that I 
will not molest her.” 

“ A good, kind fellow,” said Lord Rathkeale. “ I knew I 
wasn’t deceived in my estimate of his character — all the 
instincts of a gentleman.” He went through the dim old 
rooms of Setley, and out into the sun-lit garden, seeking his 
married daughter and other members of his family. “ The 
best of news. Where is Edith? This kind fellow humors 
her wish again.” 

He wrote to Barnard with many expressions of gratitude. 
“ You have taken the right course to win her heart. No 
one could resist such kindness. A thousand thanks from 
all of us. We all think you are acting very generously.” 


XXII 


More than three months had passed; and no summons 
reached Edith Barnard to remind her that the period of the 
reprieve had expired, that the hour had came for the long- 
delayed return to husband, home, and duty. Her hus- 
band’s importunities had ceased to trouble her: she was un- 
molested, free, at peace. Indirectly she heard that many 
servants had been dismissed from the house in Bucking- 
ham Gate, and that its master was now living at an hotel 
close to the Arundel Street offices. Something more than 
this she heard from her father, a rumor or a conjecture, of 
the kind that one might suppose would prove disturbing. 
But it did not disturb her. She asked no questions; she 
showed no curiosity to ascertain whether the report was true 
or false. 

Meanwhile, the amalgamation of the companies had pro- 
ceeded satisfactorily, though slowly. It was nearly if not 
quite finished; warring interests were now adjusted; all the 
parties to the scheme had been at last brought into line. At 
noon on this October day there would be a final meeting of 
the joint directors, the most important assembly ever called 
together in Arundel Street; and before the meeting broke 
up, John Barnard should have completed the job. 

Rain had fallen during the night, but the morning was 
bright and fair; and Barnard, driving in a cab through 
Sloane Street, noticed the genial sunshine, the blue sky 
above slate roofs, the white clouds beyond the blue, and sud- 
denly began to wonder if the season of the year was spring 
or autumn. Before he had found an answer to the ques- 
248 


THE REST CURE 


tion, he was wondering about something else. Why had 
he come here, to this part of the town, at ten a. m. 

It surprised him when the cab stopped by the open gates 
of Hyde Park. Why had he told the cabman to set him 
down at this point? Then, as he got out, he remembered 
that he was to call upon a man who lived somewhere near 
the Marble Arch, a man with whom he wished to discuss 
some matter of vital importance. 

It did not occur to him that the cabman could have driven 
him round the park. The park had suddenly and unex- 
pectedly presented itself as an obstacle which must be over- 
come by his own unaided efforts; and never before, in all 
his life, had he felt such a disinclination for effort of any 
sort. 

He sighed as he paid the cabman. He sighed again as he 
went through the gate. As he crossed the road, a passing 
carriage splashed him with mud from head to foot, and 
there came a shout of alarm from some people at a little 
distance. These people talked to him excitedly, while he 
stood on the gravel path with his back against the railings 
and slowly and laboriously wiped the mud from his coat and 
trousers. 

“Yes,” he said, angrily, “that’s the way with idlers — 
they’re always in a hurry. If they see anyone working 
hard, they won’t give him room. They’d sooner run over 
him. But all this will be heard of again — in the House of 
Commons. Good-by. Much obliged to you.” 

And he took off his hat, and strolled slowly onward along 
the path. 

A wave of sadness flowed into his mind as he thought of 
the cruel driver and the rubber-shod horses that had so 
nearly knocked him down. What harm had he ever done 
to them ? Why should they treacherously desire to in- 
jure him? Those horses must have been shod with rubber 

249 


THE REST CURE 


— or they never could have crept up so noiselessly. He had 
not heard a sound. 

Between the bare stems of the trees, he could see other 
horses with riders on their backs; and he stood listening 
intently. Not a sound! Every horse in the park has rub- 
ber shoes. What fiendish malignity! “ But you don’t 
catch me attempting to cross your track. No. Once bit, 
twice shy,” and he shook his fist at the men and women as 
they cantered by. 

“ By Jove, I forgot though.” The indignation vanished, 
and he began to smile. In a moment what had seemed mon- 
strous and iniquitous struck him as an excellent joke. 
“ Rubber shoes! Why not? All good for trade.” 

The sparkling surface of the water drew him from his 
path, and he sauntered over the wet grass toward the place 
where the sunlight flashed so gayly. 

But the fatigue of all this movement was almost over- 
powering. Never before had he experienced such a crush- 
ing sense of weariness. The fancy had entered his mind 
that there was a restorative property in sunshine ; if he could 
get to the sunshine, he would be fresh and vigorous immedi- 
ately; but all this network of shadow from the nearly leaf- 
less trees was exhausting him. 

For a few steps he ran; and then stopped short. Stitch 
again! A burning pain in the chest and the back com- 
pelled him to remain for two or three minutes absolutely 
motionless. 

The fine morning, as it advanced, brought out an endless 
procession of nursemaids, with babies in perambulators, 
laughing little boys and girls, and scampering, barking dogs. 
Stout, well-dressed women, red-faced, prosperous men, and 
shabby, careworn loafers filled all the seats along the margin 
of the lake. 

Barnard, plodding wearily along in search of a seat, 
250 


THE REST CURE 

was seized with giddiness, and staggered against a perambula- 
tor. 

For a moment he was in darkness, with some vague tumult 
of sound swinging round and round him, while tired legs 
weakly struggled to maintain his equilibrium upon swaying 
ground. He lurched from the perambulator to the rail- 
ings, and, clinging tightly, saved himself from a fall. 

Presently he was seated upon a bench which had been 
vacated in his favor, no longer feeling giddy, feeling all 
right again, except for the interference with the sunshine 
and the annoyance of this cloudy grayness. What, he asked 
himself, could be the explanation of the defective light? 

All the gayety and the color had gone, or was going from 
the scene. Everything about him was dull and dark of tone, 
like a line engraving that has been pushed into the space re- 
cently occupied by a brightly painted, highly varnished pic- 
ture. Why ? 

He rubbed his eyes, and wondered. Blindness? Oh, 
what a horrible catastrophe that would be. Or deafness? 
Even worse. They say those who are stone-deaf suffer 
more than the completely sightless. Unbroken silence, soli- 
tude in the midst of a crowd, not the whisper of a voice, con- 
finement in a moving, living tomb! He shuddered at the 
mere thought of such an accursed fate, and sat straining his 
ears to catch the sound of footsteps on the gravel. Yes, all 
right. He could hear everything. He believed he could 
hear. He hoped he could hear. 

His hands began to tremble, and a clammy choking ter- 
ror made him gasp for breath. A dullness and faintness 
was rapidly reducing the volume and the clearness of all 
sounds, great or small. Two dogs, a collie and a fox-ter- 
rier, chased each other by the water’s edge, yapping furiously 
as they bounded and turned. He watched their jaws open 
and close ; he knew that they were barking with noisy vigor ; 

251 


THE REST CURE 


but he heard nothing. When the dogs were gone, he listened 
to the sound of approaching footsteps; and instead of in- 
creasing as it drew nearer, the sound grew fainter and 
fainter, and ceased. 

But while, a prey to a growing terror, he listened, the 
color and brightness slowly returned to all surrounding 
objects. All that to the eye had seemed so dark and gray 
resumed its natural many-tinted aspect. He could not hear ; 
but he could see perfectly. 

Suddenly a recognition of this fact banished the greater 
part of his fear. He understood that his nerves were mis- 
chievously playing tricks with him. When he concentrated 
his thoughts on any one sense, it began to fail. 

Testing the truth of the fact, he rubbed his hand along 
the bench, and observed a prompt failure in tactile impres- 
sions. 

“But this is very serious,” he muttered, querulously; 
“ very serious, indeed. Some disgusting and mysterious ill- 
ness is attacking me, and here I sit helpless, neglected, utterly 
alone. I ought not to be left alone like this. I ought to 
have dozens of attendants with me.” 

He got up, and wandered off aimlessly. Then for a long 
time he sat again, on a solitary chair beneath an elm tree, 
and watched the birds hopping about on the grass or flying 
to a lofty branch and back to the ground. 

Watching the birds gave him a violent headache, and to 
escape from this new discomfort he left the chair and again 
walked. 

The luncheon hour was approaching; all the children and 
nursemaids were homeward-bound. The park was soon 
vacated by the well-to-do crowd, and only shabby loafers 
like the men on the seats and aimless saunterers like himself 
were left. 

The headache passed away, the sensations of bodily fatigue 
252 


THE REST CURE 


lessened, were noticed no more; but a dreadful mental bur- 
den descended upon him wdth crushing weight. 

“ Oh, this is a miserable business,” he muttered. “ Oh, a 
most miserable business,” and, as he repeated the phrase, the 
heavy anguish of mind deepened. Behind the words there 
lay a vague thought of widening, overwhelming grief. 
What was the thought? What had he meant by the 
totally inadequate utterance in words? He did not 
know. But it was something that had suffused his mind, 
saturated it with sadness, and sent hot tears welling to his 
eyes. 

The man of grief? What was that epithet given by re- 
ligious people to Christ, the Saviour? What was the im- 
possible task that mankind in its wickedness had laid upon 
their God. They made Him carry the sins of the world, 
all the sins that had ever been committed or would be com- 
mitted. He carried them all. He carried the sins of the 
world. Christ did. 

Yes, Christ did, but that was nothing to do with him. 
Nothing whatever. Then why should he feel so sorry 
about it? 

The answer came to him in a flash. He was the man 
who carried the work of the world. All the work in the 
world was done by him. All the work in the world that 
remained to be done must be done by him. That was the 
intolerable meaning of the words. He carried the work of 
the world. 

“ But is that fair? I ask you, is that fair to me? ” 

H is chest was shaken by sobs, as automatically he re- 
sisted the solvent force of emotion; then he yielded to the 
tears, and wept copiously. He was alone on an open space 
of grass; and, leaning his arm against the trunk of a tree, 
he gave free vent to the overflowing reservoirs of grief. No 
one noticed him; no one cared for him; the selfish world 
17 253 


THE REST CURE 


that had caused his suffering was still merciless in the sight 
of his flowing tears. 

But his abandonment to his grief brought him an im- 
mense relief; the unchecked trickling tears seemed slowly 
to soothe, to refresh, to reinvigorate. Mingling now with 
his thought of the universal callousness and cruelty, there 
came vaguely consolatory memories of his own measureless 
strength. He had never been afraid of work, however big 
the work. 

As he wiped his eyes, he smiled. 

It was getting on in the afternoon now. People taking 
brisk exercise for the good of their health after a too ample 
meal walked along the paths. A few carriages appeared in 
the drive from the Marble Arch. The sun was shining, 
plated harness glittered, the dead leaves danced and 
pirouetted from the damp grass to the dry gravel: all at 
once the world seemed cheerful and not cruel, bright and 
gay, instead of dark and treacherous. 

He walked briskly, as other people were walking; and 
then lolled upon a bench opposite Stanhope Gate. The 
flight of some pigeons amused and gladdened him. The 
grief had nearly gone; happy thoughts were flying toward 
him, like the pigeons, to drive away the last traces of the 
grief. 

“ But,” he asked himself, “ what have I to do? Surely 
there is something that I ought to do next ? ” 

His mind could supply no answer ; his mind was warmly, 
pleasantly, comfortably blank. 

“ Then how delicious,” he thought, “ it is to fold my 
hands as I am now doing, and thoroughly enjoy myself. 
Nothing more to be done. But why nothing? How noth- 
ing? ” 

The unanswered questions, recurring, slightly marred his 
enjoyment; the need of a logical explanation of the immu- 
254 


THE REST CURE 


nity from distress made a gap in the soothing stream of 
incoming impressions. 

“ Why? How? ” And he began to fidget with his feet, 
and unclasped his hands. Then, in another flash, came the 
satisfying answer to the uneasy doubts. It was a happy, a 
glorious thought. 

Nothing to do: because he had done all the work. He 
had done the work of the world. 

He smiled contentedly as he looked about him. Yes, all 
these people might well seem so jolly and prosperous and 
eager for fun. They too understood that the new era was 
opening. The work was done : the holidays were be- 
ginning. 

“ Rotters, slackers, shirkers! ” He said the words with 
a benevolent chuckle. “You have let me do your work, 
every bit of it; but I won’t grudge you your share in the 
holidays.” 

Then he fell to thinking of his own holidays. They had, 
it seemed, been planned ages ago. He was to charter a 
yacht. No, he would engage a liner, the latest and largest 
addition to the best fleet of steamships — just for himself 
and Grace. And he and his companion would go cruising 
together over lazy, trackless seas, to unexplored, untrodden 
lands. 

“ But, I’ll rechristen the boat. I’ll give it the name 
of her namesake — the girl that rowed out in the storm and 
saved someone’s life. It shall be called the Grace Darling,” 
and he laughed immoderately. 

Then he remembered the other name — Grace Fielding. 

“ It doesn’t matter. It can’t spoil the joke. I’ll say 
that she is my darling.” And he startled two passing women 
by the noisy fit of laughter into which this thought threw 
him. “ Best joke of my life. Very best joke I ever 
made! ” 


255 


THE REST CURE 


As soon as he was able to stop laughing, he rose and hur- 
ried toward Stanhope Gate. 

“ She ought to be packing her boxes. I must see if she 
is getting ready to start.” 

Outside the gate he hailed a taxi-cab, and jumped into it 
directly it came up to the pavement. 

“ Where to, sir? ” 

“ Drive me,” he shouted, “ to the red building by the 
Temple Railway Station. You know, the what d’ye call it 
— the hotel.” 

A policeman had followed him from the gate, and was 
standing by the cab door. 

“ Can I,” asked the policeman, “ do anything for you, 
sir? If you are a stranger in London — ” 

“ No, I am a member of Parliament. But we are all off 
for our holidays. The House won’t sit again till — till I 
don’t remember when — But, look here, we have not for- 
gotten the Metropolitan Police. You, my good fellow, 
shall have your holidays — with the rest of the world. 
Drive on, cabby.” 

He left the cab near the bottom of Arundel Street, and, 
without a glance in the direction of his offices, hurried up 
the steps of the handsome red-brick hotel, 
t. On the first floor he found his suite of rooms silent and 
empty; and he passed from room to room, ringing the elec- 
tric bells and loudly calling for his companion. 

“ Where is she? You know — my secretary! Is she hid- 
ing from me? Why am I left alone? ” 

The hotel waiter and chambermaid were frightened; the 
hotel manager did not know what to say or do ; but the hotel- 
porter had the good sense to run round the corner to the 
gentleman’s place of business and ask for someone, for any- 
one who could pacify the gentleman. 

When Miss Fielding arrived, the gentleman seemed al- 
256 


THE REST CURE 


ready to have become quiet and peaceful. He stood by the 
fire in the sitting-room, warming his muddy hands and dry- 
ing his wet boots. 

“Where have you been?” she asked, breathlessly. 
“What kept you from the meeting? They waited nearly 
two hours. Then they all went away.” 

“Who went away? What meeting? We are all going 
away. You neglectful girl, why haven’t you packed your 
boxes ? ” 

Staring at his face, she came toward him and stretched out 
her arms. 

“ What is it ? Jack — oh, Jack.” 

“You and I, Grace. Just you and I — nobody else. 
Our ship is waiting — out there. Quick. Pack up your 
things. But never leave me alone again.” 

“Jack — my lover, my king. Don’t speak. Don’t 
speak.” She was holding him with passionate strength, as 
if in her love and despair she would guard him from the 
monstrous unseen powers that threatened to tear him from 
her. “ It’s all right, Jack — all well. You have me — till 
death. I am Grace — your slave — your faithful slave — 
who will never leave you.” 

For a few moments he stood quite still, in the circle of 
her straining arms. Then he uttered an agonized cry, 
violently pushed her away, and staggered backwards. 

“ Christ — have mercy. Oh, Grace — Grace — what 
have you done to me ? ” 

The words came with panting grunts. He raised his hand 
as though to ward off a blow and then, clutching at the back 
of a chair for support, stooped over it, gasping and groan- 
ing. 

It was as if, while the girl embraced him, she had driven 
a long knife into his heart. And the knife remained, turn- 
ing and stabbing and rending; and the pain of the merciless 
257 


THE REST CURE 


knife, radiating in flames, burned upwards and backwards, 
through and through him, again and again and again. 

By nine o’clock that night he was safely lodged in an 
upper room of a nursing home in Welbeck Street. 

The doctors had got him now. For hours he had been 
fighting the doctors, but the doctors had won. He lay 
motionless, sleeping under a powerful narcotic, mutely offer- 
ing his haggard gray face to scrutiny and criticism. 

For years he had been fighting the doctors, but the doc- 
tors had beaten him. Instinctively he had dreaded their 
slow and insidious attack. Of late he had felt a supersti- 
tious horror of these black-coated foes, who were creeping 
nearer every day, who were closing round him, hemming 
him in. They had pulled him down now. Three of them 
in their black coats stood about his bed, and chatted care- 
lessly of their certain conquest and their easy prey. 

“Yes, as I told you, I warned him — at least, I tried to 
warn him.” 

This was Dr. Ogden Smith, the specialist from Gros- 
venor Street. 

“ Of course, he wouldn’t listen to you. They never 
will,” said the second black coat. 

“ Not until it is almost too late to help them,” said the 
third black coat. 

Grace Fielding, with her eyes fixed upon the gray face, 
listened to the voices, but scarcely understood the words. 

“ He refused to accept my advice,” said Dr. Ogden 
Smith, without the slightest perceptible sympathy in his tone. 
“ But I guessed that I should soon see him again. In my 
own mind I gave him another six months. So, when I 
received your summons this afternoon, I remembered the 
name at once, and I said to myself: ‘Well, this is sooner 
than I expected.’ ” 


258 


THE REST CURE 


“ Had you detected the heart trouble? ” 

“ No. I made no conjectures. He had brought his 
wife, you know; and directly I approached the subject of 
his own state, he cut me short. He would not listen.” 

“ They never will listen,” repeated another voice. 

Grace Fielding looked up, and spoke to one of the doc- 
tors. 

“ He is breathing very heavily, as if in pain.” 

“ That is the effect of the drug. The stertorous breath- 
ing means nothing. He is quite comfortable now.” 

“ Yes, he will do very well now.” 

Two of the doctors went out of the room; and the third 
doctor stayed for a while, and talked to Grace Fielding 
about the case. 

“Very sad — all this sort of thing. Always very trying 
for relatives and friends. But you mustn’t take it too seri- 
ously. You have managed capitally in getting him laid up 
here so comfortably.” 

“ I want to know all that you think. Please don’t spare 
my feelings. Let me know exactly.” 

“ Oh, I wouldn’t attempt to deceive you. I should con- 
sider that wrong — in the circumstances.” 

“ Then — is he insane ? ” 

“ No, certainly not.” 

“ Will he become insane ? ” 

“ No, I don’t think so. No, certainly not. Of course 
that might happen. I think that would have happened, if 
he had gone on and not submitted to treatment.” 

“ Then, what is it? What is the matter with him? 

“ Neurasthenia, of course. The worst form of nervous 
exhaustion, and acute heart disease.” 

“ Is it curable? What is the cure? ” 

“ The cure ? Well, you know, as we doctors use the 
word, the word cure is a very big word. In a case like 
259 


THE REST CURE 


this, we speak of the treatment. Then the treatment is rest. 
He must have complete rest. He has worked too hard; he 
is paying the penalty; he must rest. In that sense, one 
may say the cure is rest. That is the common expression — 
So-and-so is doing a rest cure. Our friend here must cer- 
tainly do a rest cure.” 

“ But will resting make his heart all right? ” 

“ Ah — there I must refer you to Dr. Denham. By 
the way, perhaps in regard to the heart trouble you could 
give us some useful information. The condition of the 
heart indicates disease of old standing which would probably 
have manifested itself pretty plainly. Do you think he was 
aware of it?” 

“ I’m not sure. Yes, I think he half suspected it. Once 
he told me that he had noticed a queer action of his heart, 
going fast and slow. But he wouldn’t take care of him- 
self. I prayed him to be careful.” 

“ No, they won’t listen. Well, as he is quite comforta- 
ble, I’ll say good night.” 

And the doctor glanced at the unconscious face, and went 
out of the room. 

A nurse, leaving the door open, came in and out; put a 
medicine bottle on a railed shelf above the bed; glanced at 
her patient, and made up the fire. 

“ He looks as though he’d been a very strong man,” said 
the nurse, calmly and reflectively. “ But it seems it’s the 
strong ones that go to pieces so sudden. We had a pro- 
fessional gentleman here, from the Earl’s Court Exhibi- 
tion, who used to give a display of his strength — I mean, 
before he came in. I don’t know what weights they didn’t 
say he could lift. But I could lift him — did lift him. Not 
that I’m a strong woman, but he’d wasted away to nothing.” 

And again the nurse glanced at her new patient. 

“ Now,” she said, after a little while, “ don’t you think 
260 


THE REST CURE 


you’d best be getting some sleep yourself? You see how 
comfortable he is. And he’s not going to wake up and miss 
you before morning.” 

Grace Fielding stooped over the bed, and kissed the 
forehead of the sleeping man. 

To her he had been the embodied mystery and glory of 
life and love, her whole world, and more than the world. 
And now she understood that td the black-coated doctors and 
the white-aproned nurse, to everybody except herself, he was 
merely a pitiful spectacle, like a foundered race-horse, a run- 
down clock, a stove-in boat — like anything broken, worn 
out, and utterly done for. 


XXIII 


The patternless paper on the walls was bluish gray; 
all the woodwork in the room had been painted white; the 
wardrobe and the dressing-table showed a stickier, better 
varnished whiteness than that of the skirting boards; above 
his head there was a rack to hold medicine bottles; and 
from somewhere near his pillow there ran the wire of an 
electric bell, upward to the white ceiling, and across it to 
the lintel of the door. His universe, wildly sweeping in 
ever narrowing circles round the white bed, had narrowed 
down to this, his now familiar prison. 

When he lay on his left side, there was the bare gray- 
blue wall to look at; when he lay on his right side, there 
was a square of open sky above brick chimney-stacks; when 
he lay on his back, there was the electric wire — a bothering 
thing to look at. 

And however he lay, he lay in anguish: bodily torture 
intermittent, mental torture unceasing. 

A week had gone by, and the doctors said he was 
much better. The rest cure was progressing very favora- 
bly. His tired nerves had desisted from playing tricks; 
sensory impressions, if dull, were not inaccurate; he could 
to a certain extent measure the dimensions of his sudden 
collapse. 

He comprehended the nature of all the erroneous per- 
ceptions that had come thronging to bear down and over- 
turn the balance of his mind. But the waking from that 
hallucination about his work was almost unendurably pain- 
ful. 


262 


THE REST CURE 


The work not done! The work abandoned in a state of 
hopeless confusion; and he, the worker, bound in iron 
chains, impotently watching this world-disaster. 

He stormed and raved when they told him not to worry 
about the work, and assured him that while he rested in his 
room all things outside the room would get on very well 
without him. 

How, in the name of reason? If you smash the rudder 
off a ship, how does the ship go? If you turn out the lights 
in a crowded theater, and then cry Fire, what happens to 
the audience as they fight through the darkness to the 
doors? Destruction and confusion! He imagined the mad 
terror of his shareholders when they learned that he was 
no longer in his place at the head of affairs; the swift 
wreck of all his companies, and in its sequence the failure 
of other companies with which he was in no manner con- 
cerned; the panic spreading; the whole rubber market in- 
volved now; Mincing Lane putting up its shutters; half 
the members of the Stock Exchange ruined, thousands of 
hearts broken, millions of pounds lost, because idiots, friends, 
torturers held John Barnard on an iron bed beneath an un- 
masked wire. 

That was a return of the delirious rage, which changed 
to the breast pains and passed into apathetic exhaustion. 

Nothing unusual happened in the city. The offices in 
Arundel Street were still open : somehow or other, the work 
was going on. Gradually they made him believe that these 
were facts. Miss Fielding, his fully instructed secretary, 
was the chieftain of Arundel Street now. She came to 
see him in the morning and in the evening; but throughout 
the day she occupied his seat at the big desk. She was doing 
all the work; she would even carry through its last stages 
that famous amalgamation scheme; he should find all things 
in order when he came back to resume command. 

263 


THE REST CURE 


“ I think,” said a young doctor, “ that you are fortunate 
in having such an able and faithful lieutenant.” 

“ Yes, but let me get back to my work. Can’t you patch 
me up, among you, and send me back? ” 

“ That is just what we are doing,” said Dr. Wainwright. 
“ We are patching you up. But the process isn’t finished 
yet.” 

“ You say that the condition of my nerves has greatly 
improved. And I feel that myself. Yes, I feel well enough 
to get to work again.” 

But Dr. Wainwright said that in truth the patient was 
incapable of work. If he tried to work, he would at once 
discover his physical incapacity. Work cannot be performed 
without driving power behind it. 

“You mean nerve-force?” 

“ Yes,” said the doctor, cheerfully, “ you must store up 
your force again. You can think of yourself as in the 
position of a power-house, §ay an electric power station, 
where the current has been run out, and all the storage 
batteries are empty. Well, you must give the dynamos time 
to fill them again. There, that’s a big simile, isn’t it ? And 
I’ve used it because you are a big man, conducting business 
on a large scale.” 

This Dr. Wainwright was undoubtedly sympathetic. He 
talked cheerfully, and had a cheerful laugh that did not 
grate on the ear. It was a part of the treatment to keep up 
the patient’s spirits; and he was trying hard to give effect 
to all the treatment. 

Narcotics no longer were admitted in the treatment; and 
it was during the sleepless nights that the patient suffered 
most. 

Failure! He repeated the word thousands of times; and 
the word seemed like a whip, with w'hich a demon who 
crouched over the bed was slowly flogging him to death. 
264 


THE REST CURE 


Unutterable failure! His life-work tumbling into chaos; 
the consecutive meaning of twenty years’ effort broken, 
torn to bits, converted into raving gibberish; the winning 
post within reach of his extended arm, and he, the runner, 
seized by the feet, tripped up and thrown headlong; and 
the hurrying memories took more specific shapes, and gave 
him a solid standard by which he could gauge the height 
and the depth of his failure. Wife and children! They 
were inextricably mingled with all the old thoughts of his 
success, and they filled this new thought of his failure. The 
fight, the race, had been for them, not for himself. He was 
to pile up wealth, found a family, and leave those whom he 
loved high-placed, secure, beyond the range of any conceiv- 
able want. Yes, that was the task that brought the pride 
and joy. And now — who could say what disasters might 
befall his loved ones? The money was there — enough, 
though less than he had hoped to amass; but it had not 
been extricated from surrounding dangers; it stood like a 
treasure of golden ingots in a frail building threatened by 
fire. If the roaring flames devoured its crazy shell, all 
the gold would melt, would flow in iridescent trickling 
havoc; then, cooling, blackening, blending with charred tim- 
bers, warped bricks, and cinderous dust, it would disap- 
pear for ever beneath the smoking heaps of rubbish. 

The gold — his- gold — the gold that he had fought 
the world to gain, might be melted in hell-fire, the peace 
and happiness of his wife and helpless children might be 
blown on the furnace blast from this live globe upward to 
the dead moon, while he lay stupidly grunting and per- 
spiring. 

And why? Because, if you please, three black-coated 
blood-suckers ordered him to lie still. Who were they to 
take a man by the arm, and push him from the daylight 
into any dark corner just large enough to contain him? 
265 


THE REST CURE 


Was he a man, or merely a terror-stricken fly who would 
patiently submit while the spiders sucked his life’s blood? 
No, no. Thank you for nothing. 

On one of these sleepless nights the thoughts about his 
doctors stung him into rebellious anger. These whipper- 
snappers had taken unpardonable liberties. They knew 
that he was rich, and they meant to get some of his money. 
The paltry guineas to your doctor are like blood to your 
spider. That’s what he is after, and means to get. 

Grace Fielding — poor girl — had made a mess of 
things. She had called in one doctor, and the first doctor 
had called another, and that one another, and they, with 
the calm impudence that formed their stock in trade, had 
just taken possession of him, body and bones. He was to 
lie still, while they swaggered about the streets and puffed 
themselves big with anticipation of the bill that he was to 
pay. He and nobody else would pay the bill, but he was 
to have no voice in the whole transaction. Why should he 
submit? Be damned to them. 

With the first light of dawn, he got out of the bed, 
dragged his clothes from the shelves of the white wardrobe, 
and began to dress. He was going to Arundel Street, to 
continue the work for wife and children. 

The nurse found him lying upon the floor in a fainting 
fit. The severity of the pain had induced prolonged syncope. 

The doctors, shaking their heads reproachfully, said he 
had thrown himself back. Really headstrong and foolish 
thus to bring on a second heart attack! By his imprudence 
he had added weeks to the necessary duration of the rest 
cure. 


XXIV 


A fortnight had passed, and the doctors declared that 
their patient was much better. The rest had produced a 
gratifying improvement: he was strong enough now to be 
told the truth. 

They told it deliberately, and carefully studied the appar- 
ent results of its slow reception. With regard to this great 
question of patching up the patient, well, “ patching up ” 
is a relative term. They could do much for him in that 
direction; but they could not make him sound and whole 
again. 

Then, advancing from vague phrases to explicit state- 
ment, they told him at last with dreadful plainness that he 
must adjust his mind to the new conditions of existence. 
For him, the life of action and energy was over — definitely 
past and done with. 

In the future, he must restrict his activities within a 
very small area defined by unelastic limits. His only chance 
of surviving the difficulties with which he was beset would 
be found in strict obedience to a regulated programme. If 
he transgressed, he would incur the largest risk that can 
face any live man. 

“ What are the unelastic limits ? ” 

“ The limits of your cardiac power.” 

“ And what is the large risk ? ” 

“ That you might die at any minute.” 

Like a sick prisoner, listening to the judges who have 
Come to him in his dark cell, and who are pronouncing a 
267 


THE REST CURE 

sentence against which there is no appeal, he listened with 
dumb despair. 

They explained the precautions that in their opinion 
would be necessary when the rest cure had been completed; 
and he listened silently. 

But when they were about to leave him, he suddenly burst 
into excited protestations. 

The thing was impossible. He could not, he would not 
believe it. With voluble urgency he begged them to con- 
sider the important character of his engagements. You 
can order a man to cut short his own career, to stop work- 
ing for himself; but you cannot compel him to stop work- 
ing for others. If it could be proved necessary, he would 
resign his seat in Parliament, he would relinquish all hope 
of political fame. That renunciation would bring his life 
at once into a restricted area. But there remained the 
paramount duty to wife and children. He must be given 
time and comparatively free scope in rounding off his busi- 
ness. He must have an opportunity to settle affairs, to 
make secure provision for his family. 

He would work easily and gently, a very little every day: 
in three months, with the slightest application to the task, 
he would be able to earn his rest. How can one rest, till 
the rest is earned by labor done ? 

“ But,” said Dr. Ogden Smith, “ don’t you see? You are 
practically asking us to send you back to the very conditions 
that have brought you here.” 

“ When,” said Dr. Denham, “ we have just indicated the 
risk you would run.” 

“That I might drop dead? Very well. It is a risk 
which I am prepared to take.” 

“ No, no. My dear sir, no. Not to be thought of.” 

The doctors left him; and, with a groan, he turned his 
face to the blank gray wall. 

268 


THE REST CURE 


The doctors were sympathetic really, all of them, al- 
though a visible expression of sympathy was rare, and the 


heavy professional manner was coldly, oppressively obvious. 






Dr. Ogden Smith, the nerve-specialist, lingering in the 
hall of the nursing home, and speaking freely and unpro- 
fessionally to the young doctor, allowed his sympathy to 
become evident. 

“ There is great misery up there, Wainwright, very great 
misery.” 

“ I know.” 

“ Can’t you do anything for him? ” 

“I do anything? ” 

" Reconcile him to the inevitable. He’ll never be worth 
a straw for this work he’s always talking about. That goes 
without saying. But he’s so clever: it is such a grand 
brain. Tell him he must create new interests. Make him 
read, make him think. Go at him philosophically. Give 
him some of that pamphlet of yours, but in small doses. 
Yes, small doses. Don’t choke him.” 

And, with a genial laugh, the nerve-specialist went out 
to drive through the inspiriting daylight to his next case. 


Despair! The neutral tint of the blank gray wall 
deepened and blackened as the sick man stared at it. The 
patternless paper on the rigid square of the close wall was 
the empty map of his future life. The electric wire was 
the thin thread that held him to the world of reality. If it 
snapped, the last feeble current of nerve-force would go 
from him, and the blackness would come out of the wall, 
sweep over his head, and drown him. 

It was difficult to think clearly of that sudden torturing 
verdict, delivered against him by a black jury in the day- 
light outside the wall. But this, his present situation, was 
the house of despair. 

18 


269 


THE REST CURE 


To lie like a dead man in the midst of life, in an odious 
silence at the focal point of a noisy town; all round him 
untrammeled freedom, and he, the prisoner, immured within 
sight of the world he loved; a death-in-life, a something 
worse than the common death, surely this makes up a harsh 
sentence. 

To him, of all men on the earth, this unexpected decree 
of fate has been cruel. No more of movement, action, 
energy in life. But motions and activities have been life 
itself, the life that he loved. This is how our best friends 
treat us. Fate was his friend; Fate used to watch and 
wait as he rushed swiftly from place to place; Fate used to 
act with him and for him. Then was Fate all the time 
merely a sphinx-cat playing with the mouse that men called 
John Barnard? 

Never to run or race again. Cats’ claws to tear his 
heart, if he dares to scamper or leap. Very black, this 
passage in the walled house of despair. 

He began to think, lucidly and logically, of the large 
wild cats in the Zoo. To look at the man-eating cats, the 
child sat on his shoulder. The bare legs of his little boy 
Johnnie, sitting so light and so gay, had warmed his breast, 
had drummed life into a tired heart with merry little feet. 

Why should one pity the caged beasts? They are caught 
in a garden of rest; they are having their rest cure. Why 
don’t they rest? Once they ran, once they flew: now they 
rest. 

The eagle, blinking and moulting on its filthy perch, has 
taken some fatiguing flights. A long while ago, when it 
was young, it soared too high; sweeping through some 
glorious sun-bright space, it grew tired: so now it rests. 
The mangy, snarling tiger, who paces unceasingly behind 
the bars, should be careful: he will break his passionate 
untamed heart if he does not rest. 

270 


THE REST CURE 


Yet how easy the cure should be for them! If they suf- 
fer, they do not understand. One day wipes out another; 
they have dim memories; their reasoning faculties are not 
strong enough to show them pain mirrored in the past or 
cast forward as a shadow on the future. 

Then why can’t they rest? 

“Why can’t I rest?” He was saying the words aloud, 
when his nurse came into the room. 

“ Why can’t you? ” she asked, smilingly. “ I say, if you 
feel so down, perhaps Dr. Wainwright will let you have 
something to send you to sleep this evening.” 

She, too, was really sympathetic; and, almost as well as 
the nerve-specialist, she divined that here was misery, very 
great misery. 


XXV 


Dr. Wainwright was talking philosophically, and Bar- 
nard listened wearily. 

“ These may sound rather queer conjectures,” said the 
doctor ; “ and I have offered them for what they are worth. 
They are all my own, suggested by personal reflection on 
the hidden virtues of a rest cure.” 

“ It is the worst class of imprisonment. It is death-in- 
life.” 

“Yes, but accepting it as that — three or four weeks’ 
solitary confinement. I have often thought how valuable it 
would be to all of us — to quite vigorous people.” 

“ Would you care to change places with me? ” 

“ I could imagine a man who had been hurried and 
bustled all his life vastly improving his mental power, and 
coming out after a month’s imprisonment twenty times 
stronger intellectually than when he went in; his whole 
character altered, simply by having had leisure to set his 
ideas in order, to weigh them, analyze them, and then retain 
or discard them as he judged wise.” 

“ Discard what? ” 

“ The useless ideas that a man carries unexamined in 
his mind.” 

“ I have never carried any.” 

“ I wonder,” and Dr. Wainwright laughed cheerfully. 
“ I wish I could say as much for myself. Anyhow’, we all 
agree in theory with the first teaching of the goody-goody 
books, rules of conduct for intellectual improvement, and 
so on. Know yourself. One agrees at once that self- 
272 


THE REST CURE 


knowledge is necessary. Mental as well as bodily char- 
acteristics are always changing, from the cradle to the 
grave. It must therefore be necessary from time to time 
carefully to estimate and consider one’s ideas, thoughts, 
and aims, to take stock, as it were; to discover, at the point 
of life reached, what really gives one happiness and is worth 
striving for, and what is worthless, although one still is 
blindly hunting for it.” 

“ Yes, that’s the preaching of the goody-goody books.” 

“ That’s the accepted theory. But in practice not one 
man out of a million ever does take stock. They do it foi; 
their shops, and houses, and farms; but they don’t do it 
for themselves. You know w T hat George Hewitson says?” 
“ No.” 

“ He- says that peace, strength, calm courage, stoicism, 
should come to all intelligent people at about the age of 
forty, if they would confirm their sound ideas and throw 
out the rotten ones. And he goes on to show that people 
fail in achieving the conscious steadiness and calm that 
must result from a static equilibrium between internal and 
external forces, because they never synchronize the correct 
perception of environment, the knowledge of inherent po- 
tentiality, and the wisdom of acquired experience.” 

“ Had he any idea what he meant by that in plain 
English? ” 

“Yes, and so have you;” and again Dr. Wainwright 
laughed. “ Don’t try to pull my leg. He meant, of 
course, that the man of forty sees plainly that at the age 
of twenty and thirty he behaved like an ass. The man of 
forty says, How idiotically I yielded then to the pressures 
that surrounded me, how much I was acted upon, how little 
I acted from the internal force of reasoned thought! How 
plainly I see now the manner in which I ought to have 
acted and thought then! And once more he makes an 

273 


THE REST CURE 


ass of himself. He has not synchronized. At forty he does 
what would have been quite right at thirty, but is wrong 
now.” 

“ Does he never get ahead of himself, and do what is 
wrong now, but would be right at sixty? ” 

“Yes, he does. Bravo! You spotted something want- 
ing there. Hewitson says it; but I left it out, in order 
to shorten the argument.” 

“Is this an argument?” And the shadow of a smile 
flitted across the patient’s lips. “ I took it for a sermon.” 

“ All right. I’m boring you.” 

“No. Goon.” 

“ Then, thirdly and lastly. This is the conclusion I was 
artfully leading up to. Very few think successfully. Very 
few men really think at all. In the world of business, 
among clever and distinguished practical workers, such as, 
for instance, city magnates, financiers, and even members of 
Parliament, men never think.” 

“ By Jove! don’t they? That’s all you know about it.” 

“ They think they think. But in their lives no real 
thought is possible. The deeper thought is a growth of 
^silence and solitude, and when do they ever indulge in 
either? The power of thought is something they speak of, 
but never feel.” 

“ They let others feel it.” 

“ No. Suppose a child, beneath whose window there 
runs a deep railway cutting. When a train tears through 
the cutting, the child sees nothing but some white smoke, 
and asks: What is that? Some one answers: It is a train. 
But if a child never sees a train, never rides in one, what 
a feeble poor affair must she believe a train to be. A little 
smoke that rises and quickly disappears. Now that , anal- 
ogously, John Barnard, Esquire, M. P., is about as much 
as you men of business know concerning thought.” 

274 


THE REST CURE 


1 Indeed ? I am wondering how much you men of sci- 
ence know concerning business.” 

“ Oh, there have been scientists who prospered when they 
went into trade. And now I seriously advise you to go 
in for a little harmless speculation. The capital is there, 
j if you care to reinvest it.” 

“ That floors me. What do you mean? ” 

“ You try a little quiet thought — real thought. You’ll 
surprise yourself. You’ll be astounded at the latent power 
of thought inside you. And tell me your thoughts, if you 
will. Talk things out with me. I am a good listener, 
though you’d never guess it.” 

This was the start: the first of many conversations be- 
tween the miserable patient and his sympathetic physician. 

When Miss Fielding came of an evening to sit by the 
patient’s bedside, she once or twice found Dr. Wainwright 
established in her chair. He rose immediately, surren- 
dered the chair, and, leaning his back against the wall, for 
a little while continued the conversation that she had in- 
terrupted. 

When the doctor had gone, she used to ask the patient a 
few questions. 

“ Are you better this evening? ” 

“ No, just the same.” 

“Have you read the newspaper?” 

“ No. I can’t read. I can only suffer.” 

“ Shall I read aloud to you ? ” 

“ No, thank you, Grace. I shouldn’t follow a word of 
it. Grace, my dear girl, you are very faithful to me.” 

Then, holding his hand, she sat in silence. 

The door was ajar one evening; and, as she came up the 
stairs, she heard Barnard’s voice. It was low and weak, 
not the old firm voice, but the words were pouring out 
unchecked, voluminously. 


275 


THE REST CURE 

“ So then I decided that any further shilly-shallying was 
out of the question. Commerce offered the quicker road. 
I took it there and then. Ah! Here you are.” 

Barnard, as he welcomed Miss Fielding, checked the flow 
of words abruptly. He seemed for a moment embarrassed 
by her arrival, or annoyed because she had interrupted him. 

“ Mr. Barnard,” said Dr. Wainwright, “ has kindly 
given me an account of some of his adventures. I asked 
him to tell me the story of his career. I knew it would be 
interesting.” 

“Yes, he asked me,” said Barnard, almost apologetically. 
“ So I rattled off a few facts. Sit down, my dear.” 

Miss Fielding accepted the vacated chair; and the doctor, 
carefully avoiding the patient’s legs, sat on the bottom of 
the bed. 

“ If Miss Fielding doesn’t mind, I wish you’d go on with 
the story.” 

“ No,” said Barnard, “ that’s more than enough. Besides, 
I have given you the salient facts of my life.” 

“ The salient facts ! Do you know that there is some- 
thing quite individualistic in your method of speaking about 
facts? You employ the word in a way that is quite your 
own.” 

“ Do I ? I have always been fond of facts.” 

“Yes, one can’t talk to you long without noticing that 
affection; and with the affection there goes a dislike, al- 
most a hatred of the empty spaces that lie between the facts.” 

“But that isn’t unusual, is it? I should have said that 
was the attitude of the best scientists.” 

“ No, not quite. Your dislike sometimes causes you to 
ignore the empty spaces. A scientist would want to bridge 
them.” 

Grace Fielding gently interposed. 

“ Don’t you think,” she said, diffidently, “ that talking 
276 


THE REST CURE 


on such very abstruse subjects may make his head ache?” 

“Why should it make my head ache?” said the patient, 
irritably. “ No, but you have made me lose the thread. 
Say that again, Wainwright, about the empty spaces,” and 
he listened attentively while the doctor repeated his last 
sentence. 

“ Very well,” he replied, confidently. “ In my life the 
facts came so close together that there were no spaces worth 
bridging.” 

“ That’s an impossibility in regard to what you call 
salient facts. Measured merely by time, think what a frac- 
tion of time the big facts occupy in any life.” 

“ Yes, but — ” Barnard stretched out his hand, and gave 
Miss Fielding a friendly pat on the arm. “ My dear, it is 
your fault. You have made me lose the thread. Now, 
Wainwright, look here. Explain what you are getting 
at.” 

“ I am delivering a frontal attack.” 

“ Against what ? ” 

“ Against your fondness for facts.” 

“Very good. Fire ahead,” and the patient squared his 
shoulders upon the supporting pillows. 

“ The value and importance of facts is no intrinsic quality 
possessed by themselves. An isolated detached fact is the 
weakest, rottenest thing that ever tried to stand alone, and 
couldn’t. It is the relation between facts, their mutual bear- 
ing, that alone is of consequence.” 

“ No.” 

“ Yes, and all of this consequential value, obviously, if 
you place it anywhere, must lie in the space between the 
facts.” 

“ No,” said the patient, resolutely, “ there is something 
else — the connected force of facts.” 

“ No. The force lies solely in the connection ; it is gen- 

277 


THE REST CURE 


erated without material aid ; it flows past or through the facts, 
but it leaves the facts undisturbed, unchanged.” 

“ That’s too metaphysical.” 

“Yes,” said Miss Fielding, “I quite agree. I am sure 
it is.” 

“ Ssh — Grace, my dear, don’t interrupt us. You must 
admit that in science — as in everything else — you start 
from facts. Newton saw the apple fall. That was a fact.” 

“ Or a fable. But what was the value of the apple till 
Newton had begun to think about its bumping thud upon 
the ground? Fact or apple, where was its intrinsic virtue? 
What is its value now, as fact or apple, even if you give 
it a page by itself in the history of natural phenomena or 
the annals of the fruit market? Newton thought about it: 
he didn’t eat the apple. You mustn’t mix mind-terms with 
the terms of physics, and you mustn’t confound the dual 
aspect of matter.” 

“ That’s metaphysics again.” 

“ Yes, that’s rubbish,” and Dr. Wainwright laughed. 
“ I only said it to chaff you, because you were frowning so 
ferociously.” 

“ Then, were you chaffing about my own facts? ” 

“ No. There I was in deadly earnest. While you were 
talking just now, I was doing what we all do, trying to test 
the light by passing it through the egoistic prism.” 

“ Do you mean, thinking about yourself instead of about 
met" 

“ No, but I was thinking about you in my own particular 
way. We all do that. You do it when you are listening 
to me.” 

“ What were your thoughts — about me? " 

“ Your mind was busy with the facts; my mind was grop- 
ing in the spaces. I was saying, ‘Yes. All this is very 
interesting. But it is outward form. What was the inner 
278 


THE REST CURE 


meaning? Why can’t he show me some glimpses of the 
stream of thought in which he swam past these sign-posts 
that stood on the banks of his river? He was moving 
with the stream; he was the stream, flooding out and going 
slow, narrowing and rushing fast, but never still; and yet 
he tells me of the things that were stationary, the things 
he never touched. What was his real life ? ’ And I was 
trying to guess. Was it a happy life? ” 

“ Yes,” said Barnard, “ it was a happy life, because it was 
a full life. There was no room in it for unhappiness — 
till now,” and he sighed heavily. 

Miss Fielding had moved her chair from the bed to the 
window; she sat with her head turned away, and looked at 
the darkness outside the window panes. She did not again 
interrupt the conversation, and the two men went on talk- 
ing as unreservedly as if they had forgotten her presence. 

Going down stairs, she asked the nurse if the patient had 
not been talking far too much. 

The nurse asked the doctor. 

“ Isn’t he talking too much? ” 

“ No,” said Dr. Wainwright, smiling. “ It is a part of 
the treatment.” 


XXVI 


“ Shall I lend you some books to read ? ” asked Dr. 
Wainwright. 

“ I can’t read.” 

“ No? Then, good morning.” 

“ Stop a moment,” said Barnard. “ Look here. I want 
to ask you a question.” 

“ Twenty, if you please,” and the doctor returned to the 
foot of the bed. 

“ This break-down of mine — it is simply the heart and 
the nervous system. It has nothing to do with the brain ? ” 

“ Well, the brain has a lot to do with the nervous system. 
It is the central place of business, the general post office, the 
telephonic exchange — ” 

“ I didn’t mean the brain. I meant my mind.” 

“Your mind is in the humiliating position of depend- 
ence on your brain for all visible means of subsistence.” 

“ Of course. Look here. Give me a book about the 
brain.” 

“ I’ll give you a rattling good book on Psychology.” 

“ I don’t believe in pyschology.” 

“ Oh, dear ! There you hit me below the belt. I am a 
bit of a psychologist myself. I have even dared to rush into 
print.” 

“ Are you the author of the book? ” 

“ Oh, no ; it is written by a master, not by a student.” 

“ Well, it is physiology I want, not psychology. I’d like 
to study the facts about the brain itself, the two hemispheres, 
and the rest of it: all that is really known. My smattering 
280 


THE REST CURE 

of physiology has gone rusty. I had to read up physiology 
once.” 

“ But modern psychology walks hand in hand with phys- 
iology. The early chapters of my book are purely physi- 
ological. You’ll find pictures of the brain, plain and col- 
ored, all you can require.” 

A day or two after this, when Dr. Wainwright paid his 
morning visit, the patient said he had slept better than 
usual. 

“Then reading didn’t keep you awake? I thought it 
wouldn’t.” 

“ No. I have read a lot of that brain-book of yours. 
It is very clearly written. It is easy to understand.” 

“ I’m not sure that most people would say that. Tell me 
anything you have got out of it.” 

“ Oh, I think I have grasped the primary facts.” 

Then for a little while they talked about the anatomy of 
the human brain, and Barnard reeled off the ugly-sounding 
technical terms with a surprising confidence and facility. 
The doctor complimented him on his glibness. 

“You speak in the most business-like way. You might 
have been at it as long as I have.” 

“ I don’t misstate the plain facts, do I ? ” 

“ No, those are the facts. But I wonder if you could in 
the smallest degree generalize from them. Did they suggest 
any thoughts to you ? ” 

“ Yes, of course they did.” 

“ Then will you give me a thought, and can you put it 
figuratively, picturesquely? ” 

“ Figures of speech — metaphors and all that — are not in 
my line.” 

“ But as a favor to me, to indulge my idiosyncrasies, please 
don’t be too business-like.” 


281 


THE REST CURE 


Barnard settled his back against the pillows, clasped his 
hands above his head, and looked at the ceiling. 

“ Shall I tell you what I think of the gray matter of the 
cortex? ” 

“ Yes, by all means.” 

“ Then I think,” said Barnard, slowly, “ it is the most 
wonderful fact in the world,” and he paused, as if zeal- 
ously searching for words. “ Those silver gray beds have 
been — er — deposited by nature’s chemistry during mil- 
lions of years. A very valuable and rare deposit like radium 
and not much of it. If you measure the weight and volume 
of the earth, and then weigh all the brain matter — well, 
er, there’s very little of it. But that needn’t worry us. 
The laboratory has learned the trick; it renews the supply; 
it exactly meets the demand for it; and is always improving 
the quality of the stuff served out.” 

“ Bravo,” said Dr. Wainwright, heartily. “ That’s not 
at all bad for a beginning.” 

“And here’s some more. A generalization! All this 
research work of you psychological physiologists is very 
neat, but you are no nearer an answer to your riddle than 
when you began. You say, atoms readjust themselves and 
with the material change there comes an impalpable thought. 
But you don’t bring the two things together. You leave 
them wide apart. You don’t solve your problem, and I 
don’t believe you ever will. There. How d’you like 
that?” 

“ I like it very much. And now,” said Dr. Wainwright, 
picking up his hat, “ I’ll tell you something about a par- 
ticular human brain — your own brain. It is a magnificent 
specimen. What you have fished out of the book does it 
enormous credit.” 

The patient made no attempt to conceal his gratification 
on receiving this handsome compliment. 

282 


THE REST CURE 

“ D’you really mean that? How good a brain would you 
suppose ? ” 

“ One of the best ever served out from Nature’s labora- 
tory.” 

The patient was smiling. 

“ Wainwright, this chap says the average brain weighs 
about forty-nine ounces, and tip-top brains — the brains 
of great men — have weighed as much as sixty-five ounces. 
Splitting the difference, would you suppose my brain weighed 
fifty-seven ounces ? ” 

“ Yes, all that.” 

“ More?” 

“ Possibly.” 

It feels heavy enough. Look here. There are a num- 
ber of questions I’d like to ask you about my brain — if you 
ever could spare the time.” 

“ Always time for a chat with the eminent physiologist, 
Mr. Barnard. I’ll come and sit with you this evening.” 

“You’ll be a brick if you do. The evenings in this de- 
lightful house are apt to drag.” 

The patient liked the young doctor. The sight of his face 
had become pleasant, the sound of his voice was comforting. 

Speaking of the older doctors, Barnard said, abruptly: 

“ Let me understand the etiquette of the situation. 
What’s-his-name — Long-whiskers — is looking after my 
heart. And Ogden Smith is attending to my nerves. But 
what are you attending to ? ” 

“ Oh, I am merely the watch-dog.” 

“ Well, I trust you more than the others. Watch me 
like a good dog, and don’t let those other chaps bother me. 
I can’t stand them marching in and out as if the place be- 
longed to them. I’m not used to it. I’ve been accus- 
tomed to be cock of the walk wherever I was.” 

283 


THE REST CURE 


“ So you are, here” 

“ Then can you arrange with them to see me at stated 
times — twice a week, or as often as you think necessary ? 
But not anyhow and at any time that suits their Highnesses’ 
convenience.” 

“ Oh, yes, I can easily arrange that with them.” 

“ I’ll be greatly obliged to you if you will. Are you in a 
hurry now ? ” 

“ Not in the least.” 

“ I want to ask you some more questions. First of all. 
Has this illness caused some change in my brain? ” 

“A change?” Dr. Wainwright echoed the word inter- 
rogatively. 

“ Considering my brain as a machine, is the machine in- 
tact?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ But are there what I suppose you would call pathologic 
alterations? ” 

“If so, such alterations are not worth considering. They 
don’t amount to anything. No, to all intents and pur- 
poses, your brain is what it always has been.” 

“ Then why am I conscious of a change? ” 

“ The only possible or probable change would be func- 
tional.” 

“ What does that mean ? ” 

“ Well, you are using it in a different way. You are 
turning its force — or its nerve-currents — into different and 
unworn paths, and through circuits that perhaps were 
blocked.” 

“Why am I doing that?” 

“ You are becoming introspective — quite a new habit. 
You are looking inwards instead of outwards. Now, in 
that sense, you may in time, and not a long time, change the 
machine, make it into a different machine.” 

284 


THE REST CURE 


“ How can that be? ” 

“ Because the apparatus and its work are inseparably 
bound together, because instrument and function reciprocally 
modify each other.” 

“ Is that a fact? ” 

The door opened, and Dr. Wainwright mechanically got 
up from his chair. 

“ Here we are, Grace. Come in, my dear,” and the 
patient pointed to the empty chair. “ I’m afraid you’ll find 
us dull company. Dr. Wainwright is trying to enlarge my 
mind for me.” 

Miss Fielding meekly seated herself, and the two men 
went on talking. 

“What was I saying? Oh, look here, Wainwright. 
You know what I said about the inexplicability of thought. 
Well, I have read some more of your book, and it says just 
the same thing. I scored there, didn’t I ? ” 

“ A bull’s eye.” 

“ The book says it is impossible to see the causal connec- 
tion between molecular motions and states of consciousness, 
and nobody ever will see it.” 

“ Suppose they are one, and not two ? That is to say, if 
the objective and subjective effects are two sides of one and 
the same phenomenon — ” 

“ I hate those words objective and subjective. They 
seem to be used anyhow in a dozen ways.” 

“ Yes,” said Dr. Wainwright. “ They are the two worst 
treated words in the language; and that is because they are 
doing work beyond the capacity of words. They are often 
symbols for conceptions that no language can express.” 

And, sitting comfortably on the side of the bed, Dr. 
Wainwright delivered a short dissertation, and put before 
his audience very clearly the difference between objective 
and subjective. 

19 


285 


THE REST CURE 


“ And so, Barnard, you needn’t be surprised if you have 
never really considered this before. Ninety-nine men out 
of every hundred never do consider it, I mean, practically — 
never shape their lives by it, never are influenced by it in 
the slightest degree. But there you have it: the dual as- 
pect, the true riddle of the universe, the key-note of nature. 
It sums up everything. Life is a subjective phenomenon. 
Death is objective. The world exists because I see it and 
think about it. Each time that I cease thinking, I pass from 
the subjective to the objective condition.” 

“ Isn’t that metaphysics? ” 

The doctor laughed, and shook his head. 

“ No, it’s common sense. It’s a fact ” 

Miss Fielding rose, bent over the bed, and took the pa- 
tient’s hand. 

“What is it, Grace? You’re not going? ” 

“ Yes, I am going. Good-night.” 

“ Good-night, my dear.” 

She stood for a few minutes outside the door, and listened 
to the voices. While she was in the room, neither of the 
men paid her any attention ; now that she had left the room, 
neither of them missed her. They went on talking. 

“ I’ll tell you what,” said Barnard. “ When you talk like 
this, you carry me back fifteen or sixteen years.” 

“ Do I?” 

“ You speak of these things just as a brother of mine used 
to speak, only I suppose you do know what you are talking 
about, and he was always in a fog.” 

“What happened to your brother?” 

“ Nothing much. He is still living in Flprida. He 
was the dreamer of the family. He never woke up. Really 
to him life was just a dream.” 

“And suppose it is just that, and nothing else, to all 
of us.” 


286 


THE REST CURE 

Yes, that’s precisely the sort of answer I should have 
got from Dick. You and my brother would have hit it off 
a good deal better than you and I ever will — that is, about 
your dual aspect and the rest of it.” 

On the following evening Dr. Wainwright was in undis- 
puted possession of the chair by his patient’s bed. Grace 
Fielding had sent Barnard a bunch of flowers, with a little 
note. In the note she explained that she had been detained 
at the office, and that, feeling tired, she excused herself from 
paying her customary evening call. 

“Well, Wainwright,” said the patient, “I have been 
thinking over what you said yesterday. There is something 
in it, but not much.” 

“ Any facts? ” 

“ No, but I found a fact in that book of yours, a very 
interesting fact about returning consciousness after anaes- 
thesia. It set me thinking about myself.” 

“Did that lead to any startling discoveries?” 

“ Well, I think it is quite possible that my life may have 
been too objective. If I had to live it again, I think I 
would make it more subjective.” 

“Why throw all that into the past? Why not begin 
now in the present ? ” 

The patient shrugged his shoulders, and then lifted a hand 
and held it over his eyes. 

“ There can be no life in the present,” he said, after a 
pause, “ for a person from whose future all meaning has 
been taken.” 

“ But we haven’t done that. We have asked you to give 
your future a new meaning. That is all.” 

“ Very well,” and the patient folded his hands across his 
breast. “ Suppose I had mapped my life quite differently. 
If, instead of taking up business, I had tried something else, 
287 


THE REST CURE 

do you think that I would have been equally success- 
ful?” 

“ It depends on what the something else was.” 

“ Suppose I had cultivated my imagination, and tried to 
be a writer of books? ” 

“ I doubt if you would have met with much success.” 

“Why not?” 

Then Dr. Wainwright gave an analysis of the typical 
characteristics of a successful author’s mental outfit. An 
author should combine a wide-reaching power of sympathy 
with intuitive, rather than logical, comprehension; by the 
strength of his individual discernment he should blend the 
whole incongruous pageant of existence into a harmonious 
picture. Above all, for the purpose of his creative work, 
he should have an abnormally quick perception of the finer 
relations of ideas, influences, and events. 

“ Oh,” said Barnard, gloomily, “ you always come back 
to that, the relations, the linking of events. Do you sup- 
pose that I have literally no perception of finer relations? ” 

“ Of course, you have. But you haven’t used it. I am 
only saying what you said just now in other words that your 
habit of life has been too objective. But now, why not 
boldly believe that anything is possible to you — even the 
writing of imaginative books ? Don’t you see this ? The dis- 
tress that men feel when cut off from contact with all that 
makes up the outer life is determined by their ability or in- 
ability to make for themselves an inner life.” 

“ Don’t go on with that.” 

“Why not?” said Wainwright, earnestly. “My dear 
fellow, it is the truth. Why be afraid of it? See what it 
means to you.” 

“Yes, I see your point. Don’t press it.” 

“ Build up your inner life, make it strong and firm. 
Barnard, I swear you can do it, if you will. One world 
288 


THE REST CURE 


has gone, but a bigger world remains. Say to yourself, 
‘ The whole realm of thought is still mine,’ and enter it 
bravely.” 

The patient uttered a groan, turned in the bed, and faced 
the wall. 

“ Did you feel a twinge of pain? ” 

“ No. But I am sleepy. I can’t talk any more. Put 
out the light, please.” 

That night no sleep came. 

The clever physician should have refrained from press- 
ing the point; he had administered far too big a dose; he 
had nearly choked his patient. 

The open realm of thought! The words had brought 
the resting man face to face once more with the blank wall, 
with fate, with despair. The world of action gone, and a 
specious voice telling him to relinquish it without a sigh. 
His innermost spirit, the essential principle that formed the 
source and base of all that he knew by the name of John 
Barnard rose in fierce yet sick revolt against the monstrous 
notion of the unreality of the outer world and the maniacal 
glorification of subjective phenomena. 

It was an argument that would not pacify a crippled 
child, or a bed-ridden old woman. A blind and deaf mute 
who had been knocked down by an omnibus would scorn- 
fully reject such explanations or apologies. 

On the white ceiling there was a faintly perceptible radi- 
ance, thrown by the lamp-light of the street. But the wall 
was black; and out of the wall rolled the black waves of 
despair flowing high above his head, blotting out the last 
faint light, drowning him in darkness. The world of sub- 
stance gone. Only the empty phantasmal realm of thought 
left to him. 


XXVII 


He was in the fourth week of the rest cure. 

He lay on his right side, facing the window, and the pallid 
November sunlight was not strong enough to make him 
close his eyes, or to diminish the brightness of the flames 
that danced above the burning coals in the grate. The 
nurse had just made up the fire; outside, in the street, the 
morning was cold. 

He lay quietly thinking; and on his wrinkled forehead 
and about his drawn lips there showed the visible stigmata 
of bodily or mental pain. 

The sunlight was the steadier, but the firelight was the 
stronger. It waxed and waned, it changed, it came and 
went; now it was flickering brightly on the ceiling; and his 
thoughts were like the flames: clear enough, strong enough, 
glowing and fading, but all contained within this narrow 
room, not reaching like the sunlight across almost measure- 
less space. 

He thought of things objective and subjective; of all his 
recent talk, of some of his recent reading; and then, with- 
out a recognized transition, he thought of his brother. He 
remembered with flame-like clearness something that cloudy 
old Dick had said to him. “ You stand for action, and I 
stand for thought.” In the space of a flickering moment 
there came the presentation or vivid picture of Dick. Then 
it sank; perhaps during another waning moment lingered as 
an ill-defined impression of shabbiness, feebleness, wistful- 
ness ; and then the sad echo of the words swept with vibrating 
anguish throughout his brain. 

290 


THE REST CURE 


Dick had understood him, it seemed. Action, action — 
and now the possibility of action was destroyed. If Dick 
heard the horrible verdict of the doctors, would his sym- 
pathy and understanding enable him to measure the depth 
of despair? If he really meant the words, Dick would un- 
derstand better than any other living creature. 

With this thought, this new realization of the cruel fact, 
there returned to him the sick nostalgic longing for liberty, 
movement, effort. On such a morning as this, when puddles 
were coated with ice and there was a snap of frost in the 
air, how pleasant would be the meanest out-door work to a 
healthy man. And he thought vaguely of breaking stones 
by a roadside, of catching a colt in a field, of driving some 
swine through a gate. But the thought would not serve 
him. He could not in imagination taste of freedom: he 
could only feel the fetters and the prison. 

Farmyard animals in the open air, but a wild animal 
caught in a trap somewhere in the shadow of the woods; 
biting and tearing itself in the iron clutch of doom ! Never 
to glide through the brake, to bound and rush across the 
moss beneath the trees. Why must he think of a trapped 
stoat, when he wanted to think of a free man ? 

That was the fault of the objective reality of this cursed 
room. Wardrobe, chair, table, each object pressed upon 
him its solidly substantial bulk. The reality of the prison 
walls, the heavy substance of surrounding circumstances were 
arresting thought, were holding his very soul in chains. 
The piled weight of the prison walls bore on him. No es- 
cape was possible. 

He thought of the mental pictures that years ago used to 
come to him so easily — the flashing presentment of the old 
home, and of mother, father, or sister. In those days, to 
think of far-off people was to see them. 

But was this a faculty of mental vision that had lapsed? 
291 


THE REST CURE 


He thought of his children ; but he could not see them. No 
picture would come. Nothing would come. Nothing came, 
except inwardly articulate words: “My little Edith; my 
boy. My boy, Johnnie.” Unconsciously he had summoned 
words to stimulate thought; but the words were ineffective, 
even sounded to the mental ear as somehow forced and ar- 
tificial. Instead of a sense of warmth and intimacy in the 
thought, there was a feeling of blankness, coldness. 

He could not see his own two dear children. Why? 
Had he never mentally recorded their appearance? 

He thought of himself, and he could see himself. There 
it was: the reflection in his looking glass, his snap-shot like- 
ness as he walked through Palace Yard, John Barnard bus- 
tling up Arundel Street, a live picture, strong and firm in 
line and color. 

Then he fell to considering the stream of his thought, 
which, as it flowed through the past, had been, according to 
Wainwright, his real life. Was it true that in this flow- 
ing stream isolated objects stood up from the rocky bed with 
a too aggressive solidity? Salient events without connecting 
ideas? One could not call them sign-posts on the banks; 
but they were stepping stones, yes, stepping stones that per- 
haps had enticed him out of the stream itself, and made him 
advance from point to point by jumping instead of swimming. 
But that is absurd. He and the stream were one: he could 
never come out of it. 

And he remembered again what he had read of states of 
reviving consciousness common to persons who are emerging 
from anaesthesia. The patient then has abnormal sensa- 
tions of his own objectivity, perceives himself to be a suffering 
object at a near or remote distance, for a space of time looks 
at himself and considers himself from an external rather 
than from an internal position; that is to say, he thinks of 
himself objectively instead of subjectively. 

292 


THE REST CURE 

“ If you should want anything, you’ll ring the bell, won’t 
you ? ” 

“ Yes, thank you.” 

The nurse had opened the door. She stood for a few 
moments on the threshold, and then softly closed the door. 
He had spoken to her mechanically, without any interference 
in the drift of his musings. 

He was asking himself questions. Could it be possible 
that he for years had been in the abnormal condition of the 
anaesthetized patient? He had nourished and fostered the 
sense of objectivity. In all his personal reflections he had 
purposely got outside himself, had looked at himself from 
outside. To enjoy the proud panorama of his successful 
career he had assumed the character of a spectator. He 
used to speak of himself as one speaks of another person. 
“ But that won’t suit John Barnard; John Barnard doesn’t 
intend to put up with nonsense,” and so on. The little 
trick of speech betrayed the queerly strained mental atti- 
tude. 

Was that a weakness? He had been the prime object of 
the universe : all things revolving round it, but beyond 
control. Yes, that must be wrong: weakness, not strength. 
He had deprived himself of the splendid and continuous 
governing flow of thought, which, if it does not create one’s 
external world, does truly modify and rule it. 

But the loss or the absence of the power had been felt — 
inexplicably, in all the time of his deprivation. And mem- 
ory gave him back specific occasions when he seemed to 
grope darkly and vaguely for what was gone from him. 
Again and again he had been aware of baffling sensations, 
of an impotence, a failure, an oppressive restriction. On 
the last occasion that he had seen his wife, while he walked 
by her side, there had come this unanalyzable sense, as an 
instinctive knowledge of a country close at hand, yet from 
293 


THE REST CURE 


which he was rigorously shut out. Very curious! There 
had been discomfort, trouble, perplexity in the rapid elusive- 
ness of the interpretation of the sensation. Would Wain- 
wright say that all this, the sensation and the struggle to 
comprehend the sensation, was a dim glimpse of the dual 
aspect : the fundamental mystery of nature which for so long 
he had perversely ignored? 

He was thinking differently now. 

Pictures that had been printed on the more plastic ma- 
terial of a youthful brain could still with a little effort be re- 
vived. As he thought of his brother again, he made the 
effort; and success rewarded him. At his command, Dick 
stood out brightly in the colored field of memory; and now 
he could evoke a crowded background for his central figure. 

Willingford, the little town that lay at rest beside the 
sleepy water; sea-gulls rising on strong wings from the wet 
bank of mud that glistened in the sunlight; a curve of rail- 
way with shunted trucks passing slowly in front of black 
sheds ; and, above that slate roof, the fine masts of the yachts 
cutting the blue sky. Yes, that was his birthplace, drowsy, 
restful Willingford. 

The pictures came to his command; the light shone more 
brightly on the internal mirror ; he had but to think, and he 
could see. 

He looked at the smooth surface and the mellow tint of 
well-laid bricks, watched the swallows cling to the nests 
beneath the broad eaves of the house; yes, that W’as his 
father’s house. And memory could give him back the rec- 
ords of the ear as well as the eye ; there was no sense-impres- 
sion that might not be revived. He stood among flowers 
on a garden path, and felt a hand upon his arm. Yes, that 
was his mother’s hand. He heard the voices. The per- 
fume of heliotrope suddenly filled his nostrils, a sweet fra- 

294 


THE REST CURE 

grance of ripe blossoms mingled with the salt pungency of the 
sea air. 

The nurse came into the room and went out of the room. 
He smiled, but did not speak to her. 

In imagination he was walking with his brother, through 
a meadow by the river. He was listening to the voice, 
i watching the unfinished vacillating gestures, catching the 
uncertain expressions of the eyes and lips. And it seemed 
to him that some new sympathy, some new fraternal bond, 
enabled him now to understand the meaning of the vague 
talk that was so meaningless when he heard it years ago. 
“The inner life! Yes, but I denied its existence in 
others; I would not recognize it in myself. Dick and I 
could not agree,” and again he heard the words that once 
had momentarily troubled him : “ We are positive and 
negative: we are opposite poles.” 

Sympathy and understanding flowed out of him, embraced 
and drew nearer this moving, talking, gesticulating ghost; 
no, not a ghost: a live man, in the complete life of the 
thought. Sympathy gave him comprehension; and the sym- 
pathy was extending, ever widening, so that soon it reached 
far beyond Dick to all the other dwellers in the dreaming 
town. 

In imagination he looked up the broad High Street, 
watched the shadow under awnings, the sunlight on glass, 
a motionless horse and cart, old residents that he had for- 
gotten. Time cannot destroy it, life cannot disturb it, the 
place is still in a restful trance. But why should one feel 
contempt for these people? None have ambitions; all are 
contented. 

They never see life. Perhaps now and then the pin- 
nace from a yacht comes up the river and discharges rich, 
i fashionable men and women to climb up the stone slope into 
the street, to stare at shop windows, dive into curiosity 

295 


THE REST CURE 


shops, and laugh at the poor little treasures that are not 
good enough for them. Or perhaps big motor-cars, sent 
from some rich house, have met them by appointment. The 
cars stand in the sleepy street, trembling, snorting, stink- 
ing, and then whisk away these lordly visitors, and spin 
them round the New' Forest. Perhaps thus our king 
himself might come and go, and leave not the faintest 
mark. 

This is all of the far-off, noisy life of rich cities that 
the inhabitants would ever see, chance messengers, with a 
meaningless message of restless haste w T hich disturbs nobody. 

And he thought with diffusive sympathy of the people 
behind the shop window's and beneath the ridged roofs. 
There, unimagined till now, were the hidden rooms where 
love warned the humble hearts, where children laughed and 
sang, where hopes for others took the place of hope for self. 

But that would be a dream within a dream. 

Something had happened. He had broken the prison 
walls. 

The nurse was in the room, asking him a question, and 
failing to get an answer. He did not see her; he did not 
hear her; he was far away. She, with the white wood- 
work, the sashed window, the iron bed, were objective 
phenomena that for a little while had ceased to exist. 

“All right,” said the nurse. “Don’t trouble. You 
seem nice and comfortable.” 

The frown had gone from his forehead; the appearance 
of the whole face was peaceful; the patient seemed to be 
resting more satisfactorily. 

“Nurse, is that you?” And he roused himself. “Yes, 
I’ll ring if I want anything.” 

He lay thinking about w'hat had happened. Very won- 
derful. He wondered at the latent pow'er of thought. 

296 


THE REST CURE 


“ Well,” asked Dr. Wainwright, “ what have you been 
doing all day? Reading?” 

“ No. I have been looking into myself.” 

“ I am sure you found plenty there — something worth 
looking at.” 

“I don’t know, but I believe I recovered something;” 
and the patient smiled, almost cheerfully. “ I think that 
by exercising my brain I got the currents working through 
many blocked paths.” 


XXVIII 




He was in the fifth week of his rest cure; and the doc- 
tors were much pleased with him. He had begun to allow 
them a chance of getting forward with the patching-up 
process; he had begun really to rest. No one who saw him 
from day to day could doubt that every day he lay more ! 
quietly. 

Often now, as the kaleidoscopic framework of his thoughts 
fell into a new figure, he recognized that a generalization 
had shaped itself. Thus, as he thought of his married life, 
he seemed to see broad truths applicable to anyone. 

This union of a man and woman who together have done 
nature’s elemental work in the reproduction of their race is 
surely the closest of all bonds. Considered from certain 
points of view, it is indissoluble, permanent, eternal in its 
consequence. The physiologists tell one that. And yet, 
though the two lives have mingled, though the chain of the 
flesh is solidified, how fragile, how slender, is the link be- 
tween the two minds. 

Because we can only know one mind — our own. The 
companions, the dearest, the best loved companions of our 
lives, are mere outer forms to us. We don’t know, we can 
never know what they are thinking. They may try to tell us, 
but we don’t realize it even then ; and for the most part they 
don’t try to tell us. If a man were to study the only mind 
available to him for examination, would it help him to read 
other minds? Yes, surely, if he carefully read his own 
thoughts, he might sometimes guess at the thoughts of others. 
The habit of introspection must assist him. But men don’t 
298 


THE REST CURE 


trouble. They accept the fact. They do not understand 
their wives, but they live contentedly with their fireside 
mystery. 

He thought of Edith, and immediately the pictures came: 
different aspects of her, with extraordinary vividness. A 
pale, inaccessible princess, wrapped with fur, driving through 
a London street; a friendly, yielding girl, who lifted a 
firm, cool face to be kissed; a familiar comrade passing in 
and out of the flying years; a grief-stricken lady, dressed 
in black, walking on a shadowy terrace; yes, these were all 
one, his wife. He could summon as many pictures as he 
pleased, the varying images of varied form. They were 
clear and strong, quite real; and yet about each of them 
there was a constant instability — a something that baffled 
him; something underlying, buried deep; something unseiz- 
\ able . Herself? Yes, the woman herself. 

And he thought of how he had been contented with the 
outward aspect, of how proud he had felt in the sense of 
possession. 

But possession of what? The objective reality. Nothing 
else. The warm, pulsing, living substance that he girdled 
with his arms was his. He could weigh his possession. 
When she gained weight, he had been pleased; when she 
lost weight, he had been sorry. That was because he fan- 
cied that his property had increased or dwindled: common 
sense told him that the added ounces indicated more health, 
more strength, more life in the thing that he loved and 
owned. What he could not weigh he had not thought 
about. The imponderable essence, her mind or her soul, 
all that which people name so differently, but which was 
truly her very self, he had never considered. But it was 
there in life; it would be absent only in death. And sud- 
denly the thought came to him that what he had owned and 
weighed was a dead woman, not a live woman. 

299 


THE REST CURE 


What ugly thoughts come to sick men ! 

Throughout the long years of close intercourse, had he 
really felt the want of a closer communion? Yes, here 
again, if he traced it, by effort of will pinned it down, for 
a moment fixed it, there was the sense of deprivation, 
elusiveness, mystery. No, not to be put in words, defying 
words, yet nearly fixable by thought. A world beneath 
this world; a universe to which he could not find a key; 
trouble, doubt, mystery, flowing past him. Only one of 
the words, the word mystery, had proved a servant to the 
thought. 

Looking backward through the years and thinking steadily 
of Edith, he saw that it had always been there. Mystery! 
He had felt it at their first meeting, had carried it home 
with him; and then later on had mechanically resolved it 
into components of tangible facts. It was a derivative of her 
outward visible charms: the dusky splendor of her hair, 
those vague circles of shadow round her eyes, the faint glow 
of blood in pale cheeks. These things somehow built up the 
fascination and contained the mystery. 

But that explanation was wrong. It was a self-deceit, a 
confused attempt to deal with an abstraction in concrete 
terms. Again he had blunderingly clung to the surface 
facts and again had abandoned the search for inner mean- 
ings. 

The fact, the real fact, had lain deep; and his sense of 
the fact had been an obscure perception of the inner life of 
another person. 

“Yes,” he said to himself, “it was her inner life: the 
stream of thought that flowed beside my stream, and could 
not mingle with it.” 

And, as he murmured the words, he felt at once a great 
regret and a great longing. How wonderful his life would 
have been, if the union had been completed, if his soul could 
300 


THE REST CURE 


have touched the soul that lurked behind the impenetrable 
barrier of outer form! 

This was the persistent drift of his thought now, day after 
day; and one evening, when Miss Fielding had again ex- 
cused herself, he talked about his wife to Dr. Wainwright. 


20 


XXIX 


With the sixth week of the cure December brought 
continuous fog, occasional snow, and frequent rain — the 
weather that renders movement through the slushy streets 
a disgusting struggle, the weather that makes one want to 
lie snug in bed and rest. 

The patient lay very quietly, thinking a great deal, talk- 
ing scarcely at all. 

Though London was so dark and dismal, the sun must be 
shining somewhere; outside the zone of smoke, perhaps 
the air might be clear; in the south of England, perhaps 
people were happy under a bright, unclouded sky. His 
thoughts drifted in the old direction, eighty miles from 
London, to the land between the downs and the woods. 

What was the time? Not yet eleven o’clock. More than 
an hour before the sun would pass the highest point of its 
low curve. 

In imagination he tried to see Setley Court, with the 
sunlight on its mullioned windows and snowy roofs, with 
the terraces and gardens vague and white, merging into the 
white field of snow that stretched over the park to the 
hills. The snow would glitter and sparkle; the dripping 
yew-trees would form black circles round their stems; 
gardeners would appear, sweeping busily, and making banks 
of snow by paths and steps. And then from the warm house 
would come a murmur of voices, sounds of laughter and 
joy. A door would open; and the dwellers in the house, 
enticed by the sunlight, would emerge for him to see 
them, one by one. 


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In fact, at this hour the sun was shining on the. thick 
snow in Setley park; but energetic sweepers had cleared 
the drive from the gates, and the station fly that conveyed 
an early and unexpected visitor came unimpeded to the 
porch. 

Edith Barnard was alone, sitting by the wood fire in a 
wainscoted parlor, when a servant informed her that a 
young lady had arrived from London and desired an inter- 
view. 

“ You don’t remember me,” said the visitor, “ but you and 
I, Lady Edith, have met once before.” 

“ Have we?” said Edith politely. “Perhaps I should 
remember, if you would tell me your name.” 

“ My name is Fielding.” 

“Fielding? No, I’m afraid I don’t recall — ” 

“ It was several years ago — in Arundel Street, where I 
worked for your husband.” 

“Yes? Won’t you sit down?” 

“ No, thank you.” 

“You said — I think — that you wished to see me about 
some business matter.” 

“ I said important matters — not business. I have a 
lot of things to tell you.” 

“ But you look so cold. Won’t you come over to the 
fire?” 

“ No, thank you.” 

“ You must have started very early from London. Will 
you have some breakfast — or luncheon — before you ex- 
plain your errand ? ” 

“ No, thank you.” 

Edith looked at Miss Fielding questioningly. She had no 
recollection of the chance meeting eight years ago, when 
she spoke compassionately to a skinny, over-driven office 
drudge. This young woman, standing uncomfortably be- 
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tween the door and the fire, should naturally have been 
pleasant of aspect; but her plump face seemed hard and 
pinched after the cold journey. Her voice was dull and 
toneless. She spoke abruptly, and determinedly; and she 
stared. There was altogether a strangeness, if not a rude- 
ness, about the young woman that soon set Edith won- 
dering. 

“ Well,” she said, rather stiffly, “ will you be good 
enough to tell me what it is? ” 

“ Oh, yes, I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you more than you ex- 
pect to hear from me. It’s about your husband.” 

“ Did my husband send you ? ” 

“No. I sent myself — that is, I am acting on my own 
responsibility. He is ill.” 

“Yes, but not seriously?” 

“ Very seriously.” 

“ But — but when did he get worse? ” 

“ He has not got worse ; if anything, he has got better. 
But it has been a desperate bad case all along.” 

“Then why was this kept from me? His secretary 
wrote to say the doctors advised complete rest — nothing 
more. I have received several letters saying that he was 
going on very well.” 

“ His secretary had to obey orders. He didn’t wish you 
to know the truth.” 

Edith rose from her low chair by the fire, and walked 
to the window. 

“ Let me know the truth now.” 

“Yes, you shall know it now. That’s what I am here 
for.” As she spoke, Miss Fielding came to the fire and 
leaned an elbow on the carved mantelpiece. “Your hus- 
band is an absolute wreck. His nerves are shattered, his 
heart is organically diseased. The doctors are trying to 
patch him up — as they call it. That means that they’ll 
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put him on his legs, and let him struggle as best he can till 
he breaks down again.” 

“ Do the doctors say the case is hopeless ? ” 

“ Yes, quite hopeless. It is just a matter of time. They 
will try to keep him alive as long as possible.” 

“Why didn’t the doctors write to me?” 

Edith had turned from the window, and she stood reso- 
lutely facing her visitor. 

Miss Fielding laughed before she answered. 

“His doctors were like his secretary. They obeyed 
orders. They thought he didn’t want you. I dare say they 
drew their own conclusions.” 

“ It was very wrong of them not to inform me.” 

“Was it? They do their best for their patient. To 
save one life, they’d trample out the lives of a hundred other 
people,” and Miss Fielding suddenly caught her breath, and 
sobbed. 

Edith took a step toward her, holding out her hand as if 
in sympathy; and then, checking the instinctive gesture, she 
let her hand fall to her side. 

“ So now,” Miss Fielding blew her nose defiantly, gulped, 
and went on speaking. “ So now the cleverest of his doc- 
tors — the one who seems to understand him — says he 
does want you. He says he is thinking of you, and pining 
for you. And the doctor says you could perhaps help them 
by being with him.” 

“ Did the doctor send you with this information — as a 
message ? ” 

“ No. The doctor left all to me.” 

“ And he — my husband, didn’t he send you? ” 

“ No.” 

“ Then why have you come here? ” 

“ To tell you things you don’t know. I am your hus- 
band’s secretary.” 


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“ Yes, I know that.” 

“ But I am something more.” 

“ Indeed?” 

“ I am his mistress.” 

“Yes, I guessed that almost at once — from the insolence 
in your manner of addressing me.” 

“Am I insolent? But haven’t I earned the right to be 
insolent — to you , at any rate? ” 

“ You have said what you wished to say — ” 

“ No, I haven’t — not half of it.” 

“ Then I refuse to listen to you any further,” and Edith 
moved toward the door. 

“ Don’t turn tail, and run away. That’s not dignified 
— to let me drive you from your own room.” There was 
no lack of tone in Miss Fielding’s voice now; her words 
poured out with passionate force; her large eyes glowed. 

“ Why don’t you ring a bell, and call for some footmen to 
push me out of the house ? ” And she laughed contemptu- 
ously. “You should point to me in scorn, and say: ‘This 
is the sort of wretch that steals our deserted husbands 
from us. Oh, what wickedness ! ’ Why don’t you say it ? j 
Such wickedness should not go unpunished. I ought to 
be stripped and flogged in the market place, branded with 
hot irons for daring to love a married man whose fash- 
ionable, aristocratic wife wouldn’t live with him.” 

With a hand stretched out toward the bell, Edith Bar- 
nard paused irresolutely. 

“ I think,” she said quietly, “ that you must be mad.” 

“Or drunk? Bring that in, too. These low creatures ' 
have all the vices. But what’s my wickedness, really? 
You left him — when he most needed care. I tried to give 
him all he needed. I gave him what you never gave — love.” ; 

And Miss Fielding clutched at the bosom of her jacket, 
gulped, and sobbed. 


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“ I think you had much better not say any more.” 

“Yes, I will, I will say it — all of it. You have had 
him for years. I have had him for a few months — but I 
made him happy. That’s more than you ever did. And 
yet he wants you back. Very well. I stand aside. That’s 
what love is.” 

And Miss Fielding laid an arm along the mantelpiece, 
hid her face on her arm, and sobbed loudly. 

“ I am sorry,” said Edith, gently, “ that you should tell 
me these things. They are better left unsaid.” 

“ No, they are not.” 

“ Please compose yourself. I am very sorry for all that 
has happened. I — I have no wish to reproach you. It 
could not have been prevented.” 

“That’s not true. You could have prevented it — but 
I couldn’t. And now he wants you back again. And I 
have no wdsh except for his good. You’ll go to him now? 
You couldn’t be so cruel as not to go. He is a doomed man. 
He has worn himself out, working for you. He has de- 
stroyed his chances of life by working on — and all for you. 
He said it, a thousand times — he must go on, to make you 
and your children rich.” 

Miss Fielding lifted her head, wiped her eyes; and then, 
with shaking hands, began to rearrange her hat, which was 
woefully on one side. 

“ He and I,” she said, jerkily, “ have both worked hard 
for you. You should thank me, too. Years hence, when he 
is dead and you are enjoying your selfish, useless life, you 
should remember that, and thank me. He couldn’t have 
done it without my help — and my love. 

“ There,” and she pulled down her veil, “ I have said the 
things I meant to say. Good-by. You are going to him 
now — at once — aren’t you? That would be real wick- 
edness — to stay away. Tell him that everything is all 
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right at the office — and that he’ll never see me again, now 
that he has you.” 

“ Of course, he will wish — if I were to tell him that, he 
would wish to know — what do you mean to do ? ” 

“ Oh, I don’t mean to commit suicide. Tell him, if you 
like, that I shall always be his faithful servant — but with- 
out wages and without reward.” Miss Fielding fetched 
out her wet handkerchief and dabbed it against her wet veil. 
“ He’ll understand — he’ll know. And if ever I could help 
him — wherever he was, I’d come, though I had to walk 
bare-foot across the world. But what’s the good of saying 
that? He knows” 

And then Miss Fielding, unescorted by footmen, made 
her way through the hall, and out to the cab that stood 
waiting for her on the swept gravel beside a bank of glit- 
tering snow. 

In London the twilight was like the daylight: one 
scarcely knew when the day was going and the night was 
coming. 

Gray dusk filled the upper room at Welbeck Street, and 
the patient lay quite motionless in the slowly deepening 
shadows. When the firelight flickered, solid objects 
round the room seemed to move. When the door opened 
and someone came into the room, it was as if all the shadows 
moved together. 

Then, as a tall, black figure approached his bed, the 
firelight showed him the face that in thought he had seen 
all day. 

“Edie! How kind — how very kind of you to come to 
” 

me. 

The darting flames sank down. He could not see her 
face; but his wife was sitting close by him in the heavy 
shadow. 


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“ Edie, what made you come to me? ” 

“ She told me.” 

‘‘Grace? Grace Fielding! She fetched you?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Edie, this is a test,” and he took her hand. “ You 
don’t know, or you wouldn’t let me hold your hand like 
this. I have something to confess.” 

“ No. She told me.” 

“ Grace? Did Grace tell you — herself? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“I have been unfaithful to you. You are not angry? 
You don’t mind? I understand what that means.” 

The shadows grew heavier and denser all about the bed, 
and there was a long silence. 

“ Edie, I couldn’t get on without you. I couldn’t help 
it. I have been abominably cruel to that girl — most cruel 
in this, that now I have let her see that she didn’t make up 
for the loss of you — that I still wanted you.” 

And again there was a long silence. The fire seemed 
dead ; the room was almost dark when he spoke once more. 

“ What will you do? Go back, or stay with me?” 

“ I don’t know,” and she began to cry. “ What do you 
really wish ? ” 

“ Stay with me, if you can,” and he lifted her hand to 
his lips. “1 can’t get on without you. These chaps are 
patching me up. Perhaps a year or two! It won’t be for 
long — it cant be for long. Stay with me — till the end.” 


XXX 


It was the autumn of another year, and, as The Morn- 
ing Post informed its readers, Mr. and Lady Edith Bar- 
nard had left London to spend the winter in the south of 
France. 

There was nothing to hold them now under foggy, 
cheerless skies. Mr. Barnard had retired from Parliament 
and wound up his business affairs ; he was a rich and an idle 
man; he might, if he pleased, take his wife and children to 
Egypt, to India, all round the world, and no shareholder 
could complain of his protracted absence. The companies 
that he had established on so firm a basis were thriving, and 
would continue to thrive. The offices in Arundel Street 
had passed to other hands than his, but all was well there. 
He had made much money for himself, but he had made much 
more for others. He was justified, fully justified, in con- 
sidering that his life-work was well done, and in turning 
his back on the treadmill of commerce to travel far in search 
of amusement, relaxation, or repose. 

Unfortunately his health did not permit of extended 
wanderings. A city acquaintance who happened to see him 
at Charing Cross Station, leaning on his wife’s arm as he 
walked slowly down the platform, thought him shaky and 
feeble, a ghost of the old John Barnard. Another person, 
a House of Commons friend, who saw him carried into the 
Terminus Hotel at Marseilles, thought he looked like a 
dying man, or a man under sentence of death. 

They traveled by easy stages, stopping at Calais, at 
Paris, at Marseilles, a rich man’s journey in saloons and 
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invalid carriages, with servants and carrying-chairs ; but 
nevertheless it shook him, fatigued him, almost exhausted 
him. A year’s intermittent illness had made him weak. 

“ Look, Edie — the white cliffs of Dover. You can still 
just make them out.” 

He said this, looking through the open door of his deck 
cabin, as the boat drew near Calais. The day was bright 
and clear, the sea was smooth as burnished glass, and the 
chalk cliffs so many miles away were glittering faintly. 

“Yes,” she said, “I see them. How pretty! Like 
clouds that have fallen out of the sky.” 

In spite of the physical weariness, he seemed to enjoy 
each stage of the long journey. 

“ Look,” he said. “ This is Fontainebleau. The woods 
of Fontainebleau.” 

“Yes,” she said, gayly. “We must take the children 
there in the spring. People say one ought to go there in 
May.” 

He did not answer. 

The woods slipped past them; towns, villages, isolated 
homesteads glided by; traffic in narrow streets, industry in 
open fields — these were the things they had looked at 
together on their honeymoon journey. She was sitting op- 
posite to him ; but now she changed her position, and sat by 
his side. A memory made her move. She remembered her 
disturbing fancy when, on that other journey, she had 
watched his face while he slept. 

To-day he did not sleep; he gazed at the flying land- 
scape. 

“ There is the Rhone, the broad, rushing Rhone, a noble, 
noble river.” 

“ Yes,” she said, “ but it will be fuller when we come back 
in the spring, because then the snow on the mountains will 
be melting.” 

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And each time that he spoke like this, gazing wistfully 
at some external object, there was a thought in her mind 
and in his, which each divined. 

Would he ever see it again? 

And when she spoke gayly of the future, he read her 
thought again; and she knew that he had read it. But 
neither would utter the thought in words. 

Their destination was a village on the coast near St. 
Raphael, and they reached it in the welcoming sunshine 
of a warm afternoon. The sight of the villa, the sight of 
his children, animated and gladdened him, so that he looked 
almost strong and well. The children with their gov- 
erness and many servants had been sent forward. They had 
been here several days, and they said they loved this new, 
delightful house. They seemed to be intoxicated with the 
happiness given by the beautiful, strange scene, the fiercer 
sunlight, the brighter colors of land and sea. Vigorous 
health, exuberant joy sounded in their young voices. 

“We love it more than Setley,” said the little girl. 

“ Ten times more than Setley,” shouted the boy. 

Then they each took a hand of papa and led him through 
the fine rooms. Walking between his children, he ap- 
peared to be a big strong man. 

“ Daddy,” said the small Edith, “ don’t you love it 
too?” 

“ Yes, I’m sure I shall love it.” 

“ It is heaps grander than Setley,” said Johnnie, with a 
proprietorial boastfulness. “ Miss Collett says Setley is 

only an English country house, but this is a foreign pal- 

>> 

ace. 

“ Oh, I wouldn’t call it quite a palace, Johnnie. But it 
is a very handsome villa.” 

“Wouldn’t you call it a palace?” asked the little girl, 
regretfully. 


312 


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“ Now sh °w me my room, Johnnie, and I’ll sit down 
while you tell me all the news.” 

“You are to have two rooms. This way, father. Your 
night room and your day room — where we are not to dis- 
turb you if you are resting. Through here.” 

“A bedroom on the ground floor? How very palatial, 
and how very convenient! ” 

“Yes, because Miss Collett says you can’t go upstairs. 
This was one of the drawing-rooms, but Miss Collett had 
the bed brought down. I helped the men bring down the 
bed.” 

“That was very kind of Miss Collett, and of you, 
Johnnie.” 

“ I like helping the men,” said Johnnie. “ I help the 
gardeners.” 

“ And he wanted,” cried his sister, shrilly, “ to help the 
fishermen on the beach; but he mustn’t do that. Miss 
Collett says so.” 

“ When you have sat long enough,” said Johnnie, pres- 
ently, “ we will show you the garden. There are plenty 
of orange trees and lemon trees. The geraniums are trees.” 

“ And the ferns are all trees,” said the little girl, excit- 
edly. “ Have you sat long enough, daddy? We’ll show 
you the path which I call the Arabian Nights. There is 
an archway, and you go right out on the beach. The bot- 
tom of the garden is the sands.” 

“ But we mayn’t play on the sands,” said Johnnie, with 
sudden gloom, “ unless Miss Collett is with us.” 

It was truly a happy arrival. They had tea in the 
friendly sunlight and the gentle caressing air on the garden 
terrace. Edith came out, after her tour of inspection, en- 
raptured with the various amenities of their winter home. 

“ Jack, it is too lovely for words. Did you know what a 
lovely place it was ? ” 


3i 3 


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“ I didn’t know, but I guessed it would be all right.” 

“ But you spoke of it so disparagingly.” 

“ I wanted it to be a surprise. I’m so glad you like it,” 
and he laughed contentedly. 

“ Who did you say was the owner? ” 

“ A Russian prince. I’ve forgotten his name. But I 
believe he built it for — for a naughty lady.” 

“How was the lady naughty?” asked Edith, looking at 
papa intently over her cup of milk. 

“ Instead of learning her lessons,” said papa, “ she would 
do nothing but dance and sing.” 

“ Dancing and singing is lessons.” 

“Yes, but they’re easy ones. She wouldn’t learn the 
hard lessons. So now that she is old, they have sent her to 
the School of Adversity. We ought to learn our lessons 
while we are young, oughtn’t we, Miss Collett ? ” 

Miss Collett, the governess, laughed and heartily agreed. 

“You hear, Johnnie, what Mr. Barnard says.” 

But there are none so deaf as those who do not desire to 
hear. 

“ May I,” asked Johnnie, “ stay up to eight o’clock to- 
night, because this is the day that father came ? ” 

Papa and mamma laughed at Johnnie for his artless 
method of turning a conversation ; and Johnnie laughed be- 
cause his parents laughed. Soon all were laughing. 

They made a noisy, jolly, united little party. They were 
so happy, all together, eating and drinking, and basking in 
the warm sunshine, that for an hour and more the dark and 
chilling thought was gone. 

From the windows of his rooms he had a charming view. 
The house stood just high enough to give one glimpses of 
the sea beneath the palm branches and above the dense, 
foliage of the orange trees; and, beyond the garden, a 
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rough, unfinished road curved round the small bay to the 
old fishing village and the harbor. Boats with lateen sails 
lay close to the queer old houses; a dilapidated stone pier 
ran out to protect the shallow anchorage from the cruel 
west winds; and at the end of the pier there was a grand 
old tower, built hundreds of years ago by a good Pro- 
vencal king to guard his poor fishers from the sea-robbers 
who were more cruel than the raging, remorseless, mistral 
storm. 

Of a morning, when he looked at the port and the 
guardian tower, all things were silver and gray; a soft 
veil of mist hung over the slopes of the hills; the world 
seemed to hide its face in a long sleep. He used to watch 
the happy land wake to the warm and careless day. A 
shimmer as of pearls on the quiet waters; the tower sud- 
denly looming bigger and stronger, casting its' inverted 
image with a flash into the rippling waves; red-tiled roofs, 
green shutters, brown sails springing out from the gray 
haziness; and then the glory of a cloudless blue sky, and the 
sunlight pouring in radiant floods, bringing life and color 
out of the dullest things it bathed, until the vivid splendor 
of the scene dazzled one, made one blink and gasp. 

Very beautiful, this world of ours, as rich men can see it 
at their ease, changing their points of view, defying the 
sequence of the seasons, following the sunshine, making 
unbroken summer through the year. 

And the charm of novelty that wealth can buy, even new 
thoughts, or the different thoughts of which the source lies 
in visual impressions, may be bought too. Almost as much 
as his children he felt the exhilaration caused by the 
strangeness, the unexplored meanings of the changed environ- 
ment. For him, as for his little girl, there was the glamour 
of those old Arabian tales about the garden pathway and the 
arch. With the small hand holding his sleeve, he could feel 
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the happy, vibrating excitement flow from her to him. As 
he passed through the gateway, from the shadow of the 
garden to the white sunlight, the yellow sands, and 
the blue sea, the child’s joy and wonder were in his breast. 

Fishermen mending their nets, chattering, laughing, ges- 
ticulating; so poor, but so well content; greeting the rich 
man without envy, without fear ; ready to stop work and be- 
gin to play, had his child invited them ; they were strangers 
a minute ago as we came through our gates, and now they 
are friends. The sunlight crackling on the buttressed wall 
of his garden, red flowers tumbling over the wall, his child 
running on the sands and a lizard darting across the wall, 
both of them driven to quick movements by internal joy. 
He sat and rested on the thwart of a boat, slid his hand 
along the sun-warmed wood, drank in the colors and the 
light, smelt the air that was so pure and strong as it swept 
across the waves and so full of aromatic perfumes as it 
lingered among the blossoms and the leaves. A friendly, 
pleasant world, rolling forth voluminous sensations through 
the narrow channel of man’s eye, look at it where you will! 

At first he was able to walk with the child almost as far 
as the corner of the street that leads one from the ancient 
port to the modern settlement. 

He spent the days in the open air ; he was greedy for the 
air. He walked till he grew tired, and then rode in his 
bath-chair. Hour after hour he lay upon his comfortable 
wheeled couch at the point of the terrace from which he 
could enjoy his favorite view. 

It was a rich man’s holiday, money no object, expense not 
spared. Visitors at the Hotel d’Angleterre at once knew 
all about him, and perhaps, unlike the net-menders, envied 
him his possessions and his power. Splendid villa at ex- 
orbitant rent with immense rooms and halls in it, a house 
built to satisfy the fantastic demands of a capricious beauty; 

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furniture, decorations, and appointments of the most ex- 
travagantly luxurious character ; several horses and car- 
riages to drive his proud wife and pampered children about 
the dusty roads; all these obvious indications of extreme 
affluence were doubtless noted and discussed at the half 
dozen hotels that, together with the shops, the English 
church, and the ambitious but ugly esplanade, formed the 
tourists’ town beyond the village. 

Once or twice, at first, he drove with his wife and chil- 
dren; but it was found that what the local doctor called 
carriage exercise proved too much for him. Yet he greatly 
enjoyed these drives. It was so pleasant to extend his hori- 
zon, to get a peep of the country, to survey the terraced 
olive-groves, the white farmhouses sprinkled about a bare 
stretching plain, ridges of hills clad with tall pines, and the 
blue floor of the sea rising, as they themselves rose, higher and 
1 higher to meet the lifted sky-line. 

Wherever they drove, the strangeness, the queerness, and 
the Frenchness , the totally unfamiliar aspect of quiet com- 
mon things, gave amusement and delight to his children, 
and through them to him. Oxen drawing a wagon, the 
blackness of a raihvay engine, soldiers drilling absurdly in 
a barracks square, two mounted gens d'armes solemnly 
riding through a pine wood, the charm of complete novelty 
rejoiced the little boy and the little girl. And with youth- 
ful, insolent Britishness they discovered something con- 
temptible, grotesque, or excruciatingly comic in the testi- 
mony of nearly all differences between this foreign land and 
home. 

But in a week nearly all the strangeness had vanished. 
To him, if not to his children, it seemed that this was home. 
So curious, all unseen till now, and yet at once familiar. 

This lofty room, with its inlaid rosewood, its green satin 
21 317 


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panels, and its high-canopied bed, how long he had dwelt 
in it! He knew it so well already that he seemed to have 
known it always. The ticking of the clock was a recognized 
voice: not the mere sound of a clock, but the voice of his 
own busy friend telling him that time stands still for no 
man. And these cold moonlight nights, with the faint mur- 
mur of the sea heard through the loud chorus of croaking 
frogs; these warm mornings, when women sang as they 
carried the boats’ gear down to the beach, how many they 
seemed, how few they were really ! 

Edith talked of the shops, the hotels, the inhabitants, 
and the English colony, as if she had been here for years. 
Mr. Silgrave, the chemist, was an extraordinarily civil per- 
son; with his own hands he made up Dr. Rycroft’s pre- 
scription, and he had given Edith a leaflet that contained 
full particulars of the sendees at the English church. 
Madame Arras, Confisseuse, Epiciere, etc., was an old dear. 
She followed Johnnie out into the street, and presented him 
with a brioche as a mark of esteem and regard. Miss ; 
Collett went to tea with a friend at the Hotel Beau Sejour, 
and came back full of gossiping chatter about the winter j 
visitors. 

The life of trifles was going on all round him, linking 
itself to him. 

Dr. Rycroft, with his mutton-chop whiskers, bald fore- 
head, and round, spectacled face, surely must have been seen 
in dreams, or he could not already have become so old an 
acquaintance. Anyhow, he was a cleverish, kindish sort of 
man, bringing more and more gossip about people and things, 
and making one inwardly smile by his intense admiration 
for a vulgar but well-meaning wife. 

“ My wife will do herself the pleasure of calling,” said 
Dr. Rycroft, as if this information was more serious in its 
nature than any professional advice. 

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Edith feebly struggled against the friendly advance. If 
Mrs. Rycroft would come a little later, when they had 
settled down. 

“ No >” said Dr. Rycroft, gravely. “ She will call to- 
day, or to-morrow at latest. And I know she intends to 
get up a luncheon party in your honor. But that she will 
probably postpone until she has her old friend Lady Sitting- 
bourne here. You probably know Lady Sittingbourne. 
She stays at the Hotel d’Angleterre. I am speaking of the 
countess dowager, not the young Lady Sittingbourne.” 

Mrs. Rycroft, a stout, bustling visitor in a prodigious 
hat, a tailor-made gown, and a very yellow ermine stole, 
took possession of them and the villa that afternoon; made 
her right good by dropping in to tea two days later; and 
ever after marched through the hall and out to the terrace 
whenever she pleased. 

“Do you mind her coming here?” asked Edith. “Be- 
cause if you do, I must somehow contrive to keep her 
away.” 

“Oh, no,” said Barnard. “She is amusing; and I am 
sure she is very kind.” 

Indeed, it would have been very difficult, if not impossi- 
ble, to keep the doctor’s wife away from her husband’s most 
important patients. 

“ The season has not yet begun,” said Mrs. Rycroft, “ so 
you mustn’t condemn us for our quietness and dullness. I 
assure you that we become quite lively toward Christmas. 
The hotel dances you would probably not care about; but 
there is always a children’s fancy dress ball at the An- 
gleterre which you must certainly let your young people 
go to. My girl, Elaine, won the fourth prize last year as 
Bo-Peep. Her governess and I made the little frock our- 
selves, and I don’t believe it cost seven francs all told. Is 
your Miss Collett clever at that sort of thing? Her friend 
319 


THE REST CURE 


Mrs. Norbiton at the Beau Sejour is a very old friend of 
mine, and she speaks most highly of Miss Collett. I think 
you are lucky, and I am myself lucky in that respect, to 
have a governess who is really a lady. They all profess to 
be, but — ah! This is Miss Collett, is it not? How do 
you do, Miss Collett. Your friend Mrs. Norbiton is a 
very old friend of mine.” 

Mrs. Rycroft, on this and all other occasions, talked 
foolishly, consequentially, and snobbishly; but neverthe- 
less she was, as Barnard correctly surmised, a good-natured, 
amiable creature who, while wishing to assist her husband 
in his practice, wished to make all people, whether patients 
or not, comfortable and happy. 

“ Well, Mr. Barnard, I am very glad to see you looking 
so well. My husband is quite jubilant with the way you 
have picked up since your arrival. You feel, yourself, that 
our air suits you? ” 

“ Oh, yes, it is grand air.” 

“ It is the best air of any spot between Genoa and Toulon. 
Our consul, Mr. Silgrave, the chemist, has written a little 
treatise explaining the reasons why no air surpasses it. You 
shall have the treatise to read. Lady Edith, I shall tell 
your husband it is his own fault if he does not quickly 
recover his strength. He has a devoted wife and a clever 
doctor to look after him, and the very best air. So now, 
Lady Edith, you must allow me to bid you not good-by, but 
au revoir, because I have quite a number of calls to pay to- 
day. And please command me in all social matters. Lady 
Sittingbourne is due in a week; and directly she comes, I 
shall gather a few friends for luncheon, in your honor. 
There are so many invalids in our little society that Dr. 
Rycroft and I never give dinner-parties: they do not like 
to go out at nights. Luncheons! I expect you know Lady 
Sittingbourne, I mean the old countess?” 

320 


THE REST CURE 


But Edith confessed that she could not claim acquaint- 
anceship with Lady Sittingbourne. 

“ She has been at the Angleterre eight years running. 
This will be her ninth season, quite a leader in everything. 
They call her our Queen. And,” added Mrs. Rycroft, 
with a complacent titter, “ they are silly enough to call me 
Queen Number Two. But this year I think both queens 
will be deposed. We shall both have to take back seats, if 
you , Lady Edith, decide to go about, as I hope you will. I 
can assure you that everybody is longing to meet you.” 

Mrs. Rycroft smoothed the faded surface of her ermine 
stole, buttoned her rusty suede gloves, and smiled medita- 
tively at the marble balustrades, the trellis of banksia roses, 
and the sun-blinds above the tall windows. 

“ It is such a relief,” she said, as she rose from the lux- 
urious cushions of the garden chair, “ to have people living 
here that one can know. Dr. Rycroft used to attend an 
English maid here, but I never dreamt of calling,” and she 
tarried to tell them about the wicked siren who had once 
enjoyed the roses and the marble. 

“ But she was a great actress,” said Barnard. “ Or so I 
have heard.” 

“ Possibly, but in private life a dreadful person. And 
not even young! Just a painted Jezebel, with a bronze- 
colored wig. She was never received in society, anywhere. 
Here, she surrounded herself with artists and musicians 
from Paris. She soon realized that we would have nothing 
to do with her. Now I really and truly must be going.” 

And when Mrs. Rycroft had really and truly gone, Bar- 
nard and Edith made fun, but not unkind fun, of their talka- 
tive guest. They could not but be amused by that picture 
of the naughty lady who was forced to content herself with 
the company of all that is wickedly brilliant in the artistic 
world of Paris, and who was so rigorously cut off from the 
321 


THE REST CURE 


sedately regular circles presided over by Mrs. Rycroft and 
her dowager countess. 

Nor could Mrs. Rycroft’s hat and plumes escape some 
mildly derisive comment. 

“ Edie, is that the latest fashion ? I never saw you in a 
hat quite as big as that.” 

“ No, and you never will.” 

“ But why should you stint yourself ? Do get one a 
few inches bigger, and cut her out. They’ll think nothing 
of you, they won’t make you Queen Number Three, if you 
let yourself be beaten in hats by the reigning sovereign,” and 
then he laughed heartily. 

That was so wonderful — the sound of laughter in the 
garden. 

The sun-burnt gardeners, with blue trousers, and sheath- 
knives in their leather belts, were all close friends of the 
children; but fat, jolly Pierre, who had once been a sailor, 
was the favorite. Johnnie took great liberties with his 
favorite, attempting deeply satirical jokes. He was con- 
vulsed with his own impertinence when he chaffed Pierre by 
talking of the frogs. 

“ This place is full of frogs, Pierre.” 

“ Plait-ili m’sieu ? ” 

And the boy made Miss Collett translate for him. 

“ Monsieur John veut dire qu’il y a beaucoup de gre- 
nouilles dans le jardin.” 

“Oh, oui, Mam’selle;” and Pierre, unconscious of any 
concealed satire, showed his white teeth in a friendly smile. 

“ But I didn’t mean those frogs,” said Johnnie, reso- 
lutely. 

The little girl was nestling against her father’s arm, suf- 
focating with mirth, and trying to whisper the secret jest. 

“ He means — you know — daddy — that the place is 
322 


THE REST CURE 

full of frogs, because it’s France. He means that Frenchmen 
are frogs ” 

And these things made her father laugh. They linked 
him to the life of trifles, and allowed him to forget. 

The children teased their governess about an officer 
who had politely saluted and then inquired the way to the 
Bureau of the Posts. But this officer, with his red bags 
and gold-braided cap, lived at the barracks. He was an 
inhabitant, and he therefore knew the way to the post office. 
He must have fallen in love with Miss Collett. 

Miss Collett blushed if teased about the officer; and the 
joke was to make papa tease her. When Mr. Barnard 
alluded to the gallantry of the French army, the scarlet 
tints invading the sallow cheeks of Miss Collett enraptured 
her young pupils. 

“ Say it now,” whispered the little girl, furtively pulling 
papa’s sleeve, and then, across the tea-table, Mr. Barnard 
would facetiously address the governess. 

“ Miss Collett, don’t you think the uniform of the troops 
here is very becoming? And what a handsome set of men 
their officers are.” 

“ Go on,” whispered Miss Edith Barnard. “ Say some 
more.” 

“ One of the officers struck me as peculiarly attractive. 
I fancy he is the one who posts the letters for the regiment.” 

“ Then he is a very stupid person,” said Miss Collett, 
blushing furiously; and the children laughed, everybody 
laughed. 

Once they all laughed at papa. 

At Miss Collett’s special request he exhorted his son to 
a more assiduous study of the native language. 

“ Jack, old boy, you mustn’t be lazy. Miss Collett says 
you won’t put your back into it. Now let us go through 
this lesson together.” 


323 


THE REST CURE 


Tea was just over. Mr. Barnard moved from the table 
to his couch, and with the book in his hand he helped 
Johnnie to tackle the dialogue lesson. 

“ Come, now,” said Mr. Barnard. “Attention! All your 
attention, old chap. ‘ J’ai perdoo mong canif.’ ” 

Miss Collett perhaps was not altogether satisfied with 
her employer’s accent. She bit her lip, and turned her 
head away. 

“ Very well. 4 J’ai perdoo mong canif. Ooo-ay mong 
canif?”’ 

Johnnie repeated these and other words after his father. 

Pierre, the friendly gardener, cutting roses for Miss Col- 
lett’s table-decorations, paused to listen, and showed his 
white teeth. 

“ Tiens,” said Pierre, with engaging candor, “ il sera 
bientot plus fort que vous, m’sieur.” 

“ What’s that ? ” said Barnard, looking round. 
“ N’aimez-vous pas ma prononciation, Pierre?” 

“ Dame,” said Pierre, “ elle n’est pas tres bonne.” 

And then Edith laughed, and her husband laughed. 
Miss Collett and Pierre laughed; they all laughed. 

“ It’s no news,” said Barnard, closing the book. “ It’s 
what you always told me, Edie.” 

Wonderful, most wonderful ; they laughed at him, and he 
laughed at himself. 

But laughter is a foe to dread. Perhaps, spontaneously, 
they were clinging to all that seemed irrelevant, incongru- 
ous, alien to the greater issues of existence. If so, it was a 
deep-seated instinct of mankind that guided them, as when, 
if the sun has sunk very low, unconsciously we turn our 
faces towards the west, to keep the long shadows behind us 
and to catch the last gleams of cheerful light. 

Strangers came to see them, and were welcomed. Fool- 

324 


THE REST CURE 


ish, boring, self-centered strangers possessed a value now 
that was solely extrinsic; and Edith and her husband lis- 
tened to their chatter without revolt. “ Yes, Edie, let them 
come. Why not?” Mr. Standish, the clergyman, and 
his spinster aunt; Mrs. Norbiton from the Hotel Beau 
Sejour, introduced by Miss Collett; a boastful old Irish 
general, a snuffy old Scotch professor, an eccentric old 
Yorkshire landowner, with their wives, introduced by Mrs. 
Rycroft — they were all, for a little while, made welcome. 
And the more boastful, snuffy, and eccentric they were, the 
most precious was their company. These visitors, of course, 
did not know what they were doing for their hosts. They 
supplied the comic relief, however poor, that one craves for 
even in stage tragedies; they prevented thought, and they 
lessened the emotional strain. 

The dowager Lady Sittingbourne was slow in paying 
her promised visit and might have been considered remiss, 
had not Mrs. Rycroft apologized for the delay and ex- 
plained its cause. 

“ She said it would be a real pleasure, the moment I men- 
tioned your names. * Barnard ! Lady Edith Barnard ! 
Why, yes, to be sure ! ’ That’s the way she talks. They 
say I imitate her rather well. You know, a downright 
manner, whatever comes into her head, out it pops, bang. 
But now she cannot have the pleasure for another week at 
least, because she has stupidly got ill again.” 

Edith murmured her regret. 

“ I suppose I ought not to call it stupid of her,” said the 
doctor’s wife, confidentially. “ But Dr. Rycroft says he 
never knew anybody quite so injudicious, for a woman of her 
age. Seventy-nine next birthday. It’s in The Peerage , so 
she can’t make a secret of it, can she? I always maintain 
that Herr Wehner’s cuisine is excellent, truly excellent; but 
if there is a fault in the Angleterre dinners, it is the greasi- 
325 


THE REST CURE 


ness. My husband has begged her to refrain from any- 
thing approaching excess with those messy ragouts, but if 
she likes a thing, she will have it. She is a woman, don’t 
you know, of strong likes and dislikes, about everything.” 

“ A fearless, original character,” suggested Barnard, as 
Mrs. Rycroft had paused, and was looking at him very 
seriously. 

“ That just touches her off. But the provoking part is, 
that this still further postpones our luncheon party. I do 
feel I owe you both many apologies. I go on talking about 
entertaining you, and I don’t come up to the scratch. But 
you see the position, Lady Edith, don’t you? You know T , 
elderly people are so easily wounded. And I do feel that 
she would be hurt if I don’t wait until she can be with us.” 

Barnard and his wife both urged Mrs, Rycroft to put off 
the party until her old friend was thoroughly well again. 

“ A thousand thanks. Then I will. But what makes me 
say it is so provoking of her, is that now my husband forbids 
me having any made dishes in our menu. How on earth 
can you have a luncheon menu with nothing but plain roast 
and boiled? I tell him he is far too conscientious — to mind 
what happens to her after the party. Of course that’s my 
fun, you know. I don’t really mean it. I am truly at- 
tached to her. And now you must forgive me if I leave 
you. 

“ Remember,” added Mrs. Rycroft, “ that we count on 
you, Mr. Barnard, for our little gathering, quite as much 
as we count on dear Lady Edith. Everyone does.” 

“You are very kind. You are all of you most kind to 
me.” 

“ Not in the least. It is you who are so kind to us. But 
one little word,” and Mrs. Rycroft sat down again. 
“ Newcomers never see the ins and outs of things. Do 
they? And there is such a thing as being imposed upon. 

326 


THE REST CURE 


Our friend Mr. Standish! ” Mrs. Rycroft shook her head 
and pursed up her lips. “ Just a wee bit grasping , don’t 
you know. He mentioned your really munificent donation, 
but perhaps you are not aware that all the Sunday offer- 
tories, as well as Christmas and Easter, go direct to him. 
I thought I’d put you au courant. No real pinch of any 
sort in that quarter. And now, my dear Lady Edith, hon- 
estly, I’m afraid — ” 

But Mrs. Rycroft did not go before she had dropped 
another friendly hint. 

“ By the way, Mr. Silgrave has not come up here, has 
he?” 

“ No,” said Edith, “ I don’t think so. We send down for 
the medicines.” 

“Ah! What I meant w^as, Mr. Silgrave, whom we are 
all fond of, is inclined to be somewhat pushing. He acts as 
consul and is jealous of the status the rank gives him. But 
we do draw a line between what is official and social, don’t 
you know. If it is anything big, like a whist drive, or an 
At Home with music, we are all glad to see Mr. Silgrave. 
It would be churlish not. But he is pushing, and several 
times he has called on newcomers — I mean, as a social 
visit. I didn’t think he would do it to you, but I thought 
I’d ask. And now, positively, Lady Edith, you must for- 
give me.” 

“ Why,” asked Edith, when she returned to her husband, 
after convoying Mrs. Rycroft through the house, “ why do 
people of that class always think it is a crime to go, some- 
thing unpardonable? It is so funny that they should never 
learn to put it round the other way — the usual way.” 

“But a good sort, isn’t she, Edie? All kindness, except 
perhaps her severity about poor Mr. Silgrave. She was 
down on the encroaching chemist.” 

They sat talking of the visitor’s gossip, of the greedy 
327 


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parson and the downright but injudicious dowager, until 
there came a sound of merry voices from the beach. Two 
bands of fishermen, with laughter and snatches of song, 
were hauling in a big seine net. Edith got up, went a few 
paces along the terrace, and watched the men at their work. 

“ What a lot of them,” she said, “ and how hard they are 
pulling. Pierre is there, lending a hand. And, oh ! ” 
Edith dashed toward the marble steps. “ Johnnie is doing 
it, too.” And she plunged down the steps. “ Where is Miss 
Collett? Miss Collett!” 

Johnnie helped to get the net in; he would not come away. 
It was a long job; and after all, when the last bellying 
meshes had been dragged home, there was nothing in it: 
a few streamers of sea-weed, not a single fish. 

Johnnie and his mother were sent back to the beach with 
money from Barnard for the disappointed fishermen. 

“ Poor beggars ! What a sell ! ” 

All these trifles, linking them to the busy life of trifles, 
made them forget. Hour after hour, on some days, that 
dark thought never entered the garden. 


XXXI 


Before Christmas he was ill again. Two sharp attacks 
that followed each other rapidly took more strength from 
him. After the second seizure he remained in bed a long 
time; and when he came from his bedroom into his sitting- 
room, it was only to lie upon the couch in front of the open 
window. 

Dr. Rycroft had drawn a smaller circle round him. Ef- 
fort of all kind for the present should be avoided; he must 
not walk about the garden; a walk indoors, as far as the 
dining-room and back, would be sufficient exercise in the 
day. 

“ For the present,” said Dr. Rj^croft ; but the patient 
understood that he might have said “ for the future ” That 
! was what he meant. 

Edith always saw the doctor and talked with him after 
! he left her husband’s room; but no comfort could be 
I gleaned from anything the doctor told her. 

“ Of course,” said Dr. Rycroft, “ if you wish, we can get 
Dr. Denham out to have a look at him. No doubt it 
could be managed. Yes, Dr. Denham would come, how- 
ever difficult he might find it to leave London. But, really, 
nothing would be gained. He and I are in close touch. 
I keep him informed, and send full reports. If he could 
make any suggestions, he would do so by letter.” 

“ Does he make no suggestions? ” 

“ He only says, 1 Keep up his spirits.’ And I think his 
spirits are remarkably good. He has nothing to worry him, 
has he?” 


329 


THE REST CURE 


“ No, nothing.” 

Once, when speaking of the danger of worrying thoughts, 
Dr. Rycroft hinted at the advisability of attending to the 
question of testamentary dispositions. It was, he said, a 
doctor’s duty to introduce this subject, however painful, 
because sometimes very great distress of mind was suffered 
by patients, especially rich patients with wives and children, 
who had neglected to complete the arrangements that should 
insure tranquillity. Worrying thoughts about unmade wills, 
and so forth, were to be guarded against as very dangerous. 
But Dr. Rycroft was glad to learn that this patient had left 
no business matters uncompleted. 

“You pardon me for alluding to the subject. It was my 
duty. I wish, indeed, Lady Edith, I sincerely wish it had 
not been so obviously my duty.” 

To keep up his spirits! That was all that science could 
suggest. 

“It is the great secret in these cases,” said Dr. Rycroft, 
after blowing a speck of dust from his soft felt hat, “ and to 
banish worry, however slight. And, though difficult, it is 
desirable to fill his days with agreeable occupations and 
amusements. Simple occupation without the least fatigue, 
and harmless amusement without any excitement. My wife 
proposes to pay you a visit this afternoon. She is driving 
with Lady Sittingbourne, and they will look in together.” 

All about him the harmless, happy life of trifles went on. 
The people of this sunny land were like children: to see 
how they loved their spot of earth was enough to make a 
foreigner love it. 

His own children were busy in the garden, watching the 
gardeners take out a dead tree, a cypress that had been struck 
by lightning in a September storm. It ought to have been 
cut down at once; but the gardeners till lately had believed 
330 


THE REST CURE 


that one side of it was still alive. Now it was all brown 
and shriveled, an eyesore and a nuisance in the garden. 
The sun was shining; pleasant sounds, pleasant scents, 
floated into his room. 

The children came to the window, told him about the 
tree, and went gayly away. Miss Collett was picking her 
table decoration, and he spoke to her as she passed the win- 
dow. She showed him the roses. 

“ Charming,” he said. “How clever you are! You 
make the table so pretty that it is a treat to sit at dinner.” 

Then Edith came to bring him a newspaper, and to tell 
him that there would be visitors at tea. 

“ It is that stupid old woman again, and Mrs. Rycroft. 
Of course you need not see them, Jack.” 

“ Oh, but I would like to see them. Let me have tea 
with you.” 

“ I am so afraid it may tire you.” 

“ It won’t tire me. I’ll save my walk till then. Don’t 
you see? ” And he took her hand. “ I don’t want them to 
deprive me of an hour of your company. They shan’t rob 
me of that.” 

From the doorway of his room she looked back at him. 

He was unfolding the newspapers, and she saw the thin- 
ness and the weakness of his hands. She saw him as he 
had been, and as he was now: like and unlike, a changed 
man and yet the same man, a wonderful, mysterious, inex- 
pressibly painful sight, to print itself on her memory until he 
should change again. The big shoulders were lean and 
stooping; the neck bent forward; his body was a framework 
on which the clothes hung loosely and in folds. His hair, 
which used to stick up so stiffly, now lay back limply; and 
it was quite gray at the sides of the forehead. The fore- 
head seemed higher and more massive above the narrower 
face. All the lines of the face seemed, in contracting, to 

33i 


THE REST CURE 


have softened ; all that was aggressive in the chin or too reso- 
lute about the lips had become refined into an expression of 
passive courage. Or so it seemed to her. For, in her eyes, 
the face was beautiful and noble as it had never been till 
now. 

The dowager Lady Sittingbourne was stupid, inordinately 
stupid. She had what hotel critics admired as a command- 
ing presence; and in spite of her advanced age, she carried 
herself grandly. She stared with a curious wall-eyed in- 
tensity; she laughed with an almost juvenile sprightliness; 
and her manner, though downright, was neither ill-bred nor 
ungracious. For many years she had been the queen of 
hotels in unfashionable localities, charming and terrifying 
table-d’hote guests by her affability and rank; but behind 
the proud carriage, the wall-eye, and the sprightly chatter, 
there was, alas, nothing except crass stupidity. 

“ Pray do not rise from your chair,” said Lady Sitting- 
bourne. 

Nevertheless, Mr. Barnard would stand up to welcome 
his wife’s visitors. 

“ I have been so sorry,” said Lady Sittingbourne, “ to 
hear such bad accounts of you from Mrs. Rycroft.” 

Barnard shrugged his lean shoulders, and smiled depjre- 
catingly. 

“ I am not so robust as I used to be, but I am better 
than I have been lately,” and he moved slowly to the tea- 
table, and brought Lady Sittingbourne some cakes and 
biscuits. 

This dowager was poor, and any display of wealth 
always interested her. At her hotels she was habitually 
fascinated by opulent first-floor visitors, the profuse outlay 
demanded from those who traveled with their own motor- 
cars, occupied large sitting-rooms, and drank champagne at 
dinner, made her tremble with a strange emotion: as when 
332 


THE REST CURE 


in a Kursaal gaming room she watched the croupier sweep 
away the pile of gold from some recklessly high player. 
She was not exactly envious; but the idea of all the money 
lost and won excited her nerves and enthralled her mind. 

As she nibbled a biscuit, she stared at the blue Sevres, 
the satin panels, the painted ceiling, at the pomp and the 
space, the luxuries and the comforts of the Russian princes 
villa; and soon she began insidiously to lead Mr. Barnard 
to confess the amount of rent that he paid for the whole 
season. It must be enormous: at the Hotel d’Angleterre 
they quoted a fabulous figure. 

Mr. Barnard, plied with indirect questions, confessed 
that the rent was high, but evaded a more detailed and 
precise confession. On the whole, the Russian prince had 
treated him fairly; he did not desire to imply that the 
landlord had been extortionate. 

“ At any rate,” said Lady Sittingbourne, “ he’ll be very 
lucky if he gets such a good tenant next year.” 

“ But we hope,” said Edith, hurriedly, “ to come back 
ourselves next year. My husband likes the place: we all 
like it immensely.” 

“ Indeed, yes,” said kind Mrs. Rycroft. “ We count 
on you. We hope to see you year after year, now that you 
have found out the virtues of our air.” 

“ Oh, yes,” said Lady Sittingbourne, with a rapid assump- 
tion of sprightliness, “ we count on you.” 

But the odious, tactless old woman had published the 
dark thought in spoken words. Had she said to her host, 
“ Next year you won’t be here, or anywhere,” she could 
not have expressed the thought with a more horrible direct- 
ness. Edith, watching her husband, saw him wince. Mrs. 
Rycroft flushed, frowned; and then, taking charge of the 
conversation, maintained a cheering monologue. 

“ Lady Edith, if your young people care for donkey- 
22 333 


THE REST CURE 


riding, why shouldn’t we get up a little picnic for them? 
My girl, Elaine, would be delighted. There are excellent 
donkeys, belonging to Cesar, you know, the horticulturist; 
and he has a number of saddles. They are the same donkeys 
that you see drawing the sand in the carts. Quite safe to 
ride. Poor dears, they work too hard to be frisky. 

“ Mr. Barnard, have you read that deliciously funny 
book by — I have forgotten the name ? The man who 
wrote the ‘Adventures of a Three-legged Chair!’ No? 
Then I’ll lend it to you.” 

After monologuing for a few minutes Mrs. Rycroft 
brought the visit to its conclusion, and, without any apolo- 
gies for going, removed her disgraced dowager. 

“ Good-by, Lady Sittingbourne,” said Edith, very coldly. 
She had politely followed her guests to the hall; and when 
they drove away, she gave some orders to the servants. 

Never again would she be at home to Lady Sittingbourne. 
Mrs. Rycroft, if she came alone, was to be admitted; but if 
she came with Lady Sittingbourne, she was to find a once 
hospitable door closed against her. 

He had returned to his own room and was sitting^ in a 
deep chair by the window, when presently Edith came down- 
stairs and looked for him. She went to the back of the 
chair, and, standing behind him, put her arms round his 
neck. 

“ Edie ! ” He took her hands in his, and gently 
squeezed them. 

“ Jack, we must — must get that — book Mrs. Rycroft 
spoke of.” Her voice, though she struggled to control it, 
faltered and quavered. “ The reviews say it is very amus- 
ing.” 

She had come to the side of the chair, and he saw the 
tears in her eyes. 


334 


THE REST CURE 

“ Edie > my dear girl, don’t fret if people won’t allow us 
always to hide hard facts. Perhaps it is better — at least 
for you and me — not to go on pretending. So I want you 
to know — it is really the truth — that I am reconciled now 
to — ” 

“ No, no. It breaks my heart if you say that. Jack, 
Jack!” 

She had dropped upon her knees; and, with her forehead 
pressed against his shrunken thigh, she wept. 

“ Edie, my pretty Edie, don’t.” 

“ It breaks my heart. I can’t bear it. I do nothing to 
help you. I have never helped you. In all the long time, 
I have never done anything for you.” 

“ You have done everything, or you would have done 
everything, always. Edie, you were always the same, the 
best of wives.” 

“No! No!” 

“You don’t know what this last year has been to me. 
You have made it the happiest time of my life. You are 
still making it all easy, all happy.” 

“ I neglected you. I left you. A bad wife. A bad 
wife.” 

“ No,” he said resolutely, “ the best wife a man ever 
had,” and he stooped, and kissed her hair. “ Now you 
must put on your hat, and go and have a good walk.” 

“ No, let me stay with you.” 

“ But you have been with me all day. You must have ex- 
ercise. That’s an invalid’s selfishness. Invalids are careful 
to keep their nurses fit and strong. Think — if you were 
to be ill, I shouldn’t see you for days perhaps. 

“ And, Edie, let me finish what I was going to say, and 
then I’ll never speak of it again. When I first broke 
down, and they explained to me about my rest cure — that 
I must submit to it, as inevitable — I fought against the 
335 


THE REST CURE 


idea; I felt that I could not face it. But now I am pre- 
pared for it. So you are not to be sorry, and you are not 
to fret. I am reconciled to it. Except for the pain of 
leaving you, I am quite reconciled. I look on what is com- 
ing as my rest cure, a long rest cure, the only real rest cure.” 


XXXII 


She walked fast, away from the house, along the road 
through the olive trees on the hill-side; and the land, the 
sea, the sky, were blotted out by her scalding tears. 

Once she had loved him ; once she had ceased to love him ; 
and now again she loved him. Thoughts of the past and 
thoughts of the future blended to give force and passion to 
her distress. Once his overbearing presence had seemed a 
crushing weight; the sound of his voice jarred upon her 
nerves ; the tyranny of his embraces made her turn faint and 
sick ; and now that he was going from her for ever, the sense 
of an immeasurable loss was almost driving her mad. 

No hope! absolutely no hope. The London doctors had 
told her that it was scarcely possible for him to live through 
the winter; sentence of death had been pronounced upon 
him; all that was left him of life might be considered as a 
short reprieve. Nothing to be done by her, except to stand 
by, watch and wait with folded hands. 

He himself knew that there was no hope. He understood 
all that was probably approaching: pain and still more pain, 
the torment that might render death a blessed relief. No 
hope, unless, as the doctors had hinted, one should hope 
that the progress of the disease would henceforth be merci- 
fully rapid. 

Too horrible: driving one mad to think of. Like a 
sentence upon a malefactor in the barbarous past: not 
merely death, but lingering tortures first. 

And his courage! He did not believe in a life beyond 
the grave; for him death meant annihilation; and yet, with 

337 


THE REST CURE 


his indomitable courage, he had slowly steeled himself, 
until he could say, and without a tremor, that he was ready 
— that she need not fret. 

She walked fast and far, through the olives and the pines ; 
and then came down a rough path to the road by the sea- 
shore. The sunset light was reddening the sky, and she 
looked at the quiet beauty of the curved bay, the wooded 
banks of the low hills, and the loftier crest of the distant 
headland. 

She stood by the tideless sea, and thought how peaceful 
it seemed. A land-locked sea, like a stagnant lake, glitter- 
ing in the sunshine. Yet it could be terrible on moonless, 
starless nights when the cruel, invisible winds lashed it to a 
black fury. And she thought of the time in her own life 
when the last glow of love had died out, and nothing was 
left to her but fear. 

While she looked backward to this time, all that she could 
see was darkness, storm, and grief, not a gleam of love, only 
fear hiding in darkness. 

At the beginning he had seemed the incarnation of her 
dreams: the strong man sent by fate to lift her out of sad 
musings, vague doubts, and vain regrets. He was strong, 
if she was weak; and from his strength she would draw her 
strength. He was strong enough to save her from every 
conceivable peril, to save her from herself, if dangers lay 
beneath the surface of her own existence. At first, thought 
and not emotion guided her; thought still mingled with love 
when secretly she chose him to be lord of her life; but the 
love, as she yielded to it, quickly mastered her, set her on 
fire, and swept her, clothed with flame, into his open arms. 

Then came the disillusionment. The hands that held 
her, instead of being skillful and gentle, were coarse and 
rough. Throughout the honeymoon, and long afterwards, 
she was struggling to preserve the idealization that she had 
338 


THE REST CURE 


created, and refusing to admit a recognition of actual attri- 
butes. He was not common or brutal; he was not clumsy 
and dense; he was one of nature’s brave knights, as truly 
chivalrous as she had ever fancied and desired. But what- 
ever he might prove to be, she would remain entirely faith- 
ful to her bargain. He should never know how and why 
he had disappointed her highest hopes. No one on earth 
should ever guess. 

Pride helped her at first; but then the resolutely simu- 
lated attitude of mind built up a habit to support itself, 
and afterwards, for a long time, it was easy to be inwardly 
that which she appeared to be outwardly: a woman quite 
contented and at peace. In those years she was even able 
to tinge all her thought of him with the pale, reflected light 
of the old passionate love ; she believed that she would 
always be able to feel for him respect, regard, tranquil 
affection; hardly a day passed that she did not remind her- 
self of his claims for admiration. He was generous, extraor- 
dinarily generous. His was essentially a fine character. 
He was a real man, through and through. He had a man’s 
faults; but no meanness or pettiness was possible to him. 
So she used to think of him, admiring his stubborn deter- 
mination, his untiring labor, his conquest of fortune and 
good name. So she used to live with him, knowing that 
she could never be really happy, craving for the things that 
she had failed to attain, longing for sympathy, companion- 
ship, government — a woman thrown back upon herself. 

And then came — then there was darkness and storm. 

Yet in this last year the love had revived again, and it 
was greater, infinitely higher and greater than it had ever 
been. Compassion took her back to him; duty kept her by 
his side; but it was love that now held her fast. 

How had the old love revived and this new love become 
joined with it? The change in herself had been effected by 

339 


THE REST CURE 


the change in him. As the shell of the man shrank and 
dwindled, the soul of the man seemed to rise and grow. 
The marvelous, incredible change in him had been unfolded 
with slow and subtle manifestations; month after month 
in this year of her faithful service she had felt, though she 
could not comprehend, the transition, until now it was as 
if the full miracle had been accomplished and he had passed 
from the real into the ideal. Miraculous! Sometimes she 
had' thought that it was as if he had already died, and 
another man had come to life. The man whom she had 
known and feared was dead: this was the man whom she 
had loved in dreams. 

But she was not alone in perceiving the transformation. 
People had dreaded him. Now they were fond of him. 
The children — she could never make them love him. 
Now they loved him. Servants, strangers, those learned 
English doctors, these ignorant French peasants, all who 
had the slightest intercourse with him, showed a warm 
spark that could at his breath soon kindle into love. 

He was patient and tolerant, instead of being irritable and 
severe. He could make allowances: he could understand. 

And she remembered something that he had said to her 
quite lately, something that had sent a hot pang thrilling 
through her breast. 

“ I see how wrong I was in not cultivating sympathy.” 
He had been speaking of past experiences. “ But I never 
thought, I had no sympathy with people whose aims were 
opposed to mine, and I see now quite plainly that in con- 
sequence I never understood them. That was a mistake 
that bred mistakes — I mean, in my business, in all my 
work.” 

And then he added the words that gave her pain, pain, 
because in the words there had seemed to be an apology for 
his faults or deficiencies. 


340 


THE REST CURE 


“ I didn’t understand. Sympathy comes from under- 
standing ; and I never understood anybody — not even my 
own sweet wife, the treasure of my world.” 

She was walking homeward by the shore, and still she 
thought of him. 

The sun had set when she reached the garden wall, and 
the colder air of evening crept across the water and rustled 
and sighed in the trees. Against the darkening sky the 
pretty house seemed a gloomy mass, as solid as the fortress 
tower by the harbor pier; but the tower was black and 
dead, with no sign of life, and the house shed forth soft 
beams of light from upper windows. She could not see 
the light from the windows of his room, and she walked 
faster, hurried through the intervening trees until his lamp- 
| light met her eyes. Then she stopped on the garden path, 
and tried to cease thinking. She must somehow steady her 
nerves and compose her face, before she dared to enter the 
lighted room and sit by his side. 


XXXIII 


February was a bad month, with little sun, leaden gray 
skies on many days, and the mistral often blowing. Dr. 
Rycroft kept his patient indoors, and advised Edith of new 
dangers. The patient had become subject to fits of breath- 
lessness, and seemed so asthmatic that it was often difficult 
for him to maintain a recumbent position. This meant 
that the respiratory system was now impaired by the defec- 
tive circulation; the lungs lacked adequate nutrition; the 
ruined heart was involving other organs in its ruin. A 
cold might bring on bronchitis, and that would be exceed- 
ingly dangerous. 

It was difficult to occupy the hours. He sat in his chair 
by the window, or rested on the couch with his back 
propped up against a movable support; and his wife waited 
on him, showed him illustrated newspapers, or read aloud 
to him. 

But his attention soon wandered ; the most amusing books 
failed to amuse him ; the time passed slowly and wearily. 

Then, one morning, he found amusement for himself. 
He had been able to sleep the night before; and to-day, 
refreshed by sleep, he appeared to be a little stronger. 

“ Edie,” he said, “ in my large dressing-case there are 
some old photographs that I would like to look through, if 
you don’t mind helping me.” 

She went into his bedroom, and brought out the leather 
case; and for the remainder of the morning he amused him- 
self. 

“ I have all the letters that you ever wrote to me,” he 
342 


THE REST CURE 


told her ; “ but they are in another place — not in there.” 

She sat on a stool by his couch, handed him packets of 
letters, folded memoranda, photographs wrapped in tissue 
paper, and watched his face while he examined them. 

“ It is dull for you,” he said, apologetically; “but these 
take me back into the past. They all tell of events that 
once were full of interest. These are letters from my 
brother. I must write to Dick. Look at this, Edie. A 
photograph of my mother ! ” 

And while she looked at the faded picture he talked to 
her of his old home. 

“What’s that?” She had handed him another photo- 
| graph. “‘Johnnie, aged three/ Yes, that is my writing 
on the mount. I didn’t remember that I had this photograph 
of him. What a sturdy rogue he looks. You said he was 
j like me.” 

“ Everybody used to say so.” 

“ Edie, where are those miniatures of the children? You 
remember? Portraits that were painted a little time be- 
fore — before our great loss — by that clever lady — your 
mother’s friend. What was her name?” 

“ Mrs. Sheridan.” 

“Mrs. Sheridan ! Have you got them still ? ” 

“ Oh, yes. They are on my table upstairs.” 

“ I should so like to look at them again. Can you get 
them for me ? ” 

She went upstairs, and returned with two small oval 
frames. 

“ But the other, Edie? The one of — Isabel?” " 

“ I thought that you would not care to see that.” 

“Yes, I would like to see it. It will bring sad mem- 
ories; but I want to remember.” 

Then she brought him the miniature portrait of the dead 
child. 


343 


THE REST CURE 


“Poor little thing!” He looked at the picture in- 
tently and wistfully. “ I loved her, Edie — in my own 
selfish way. But I did truly love her. Our sweet little 
girl.” 

He asked his wife to let him keep the miniatures down- 
stairs. 

“ Put them near my desk — over there — where I can see 
them. Do you mind ? ” And he went on reading the old 
letters. 

“ This is from Grindley. He was a man who gave me 
a lot of trouble. I kept his letters because I never knew 
when he might be troublesome again.” 

The morning passed rapidly. He had been interested and 
amused. 

In the afternoon he asked for writing materials; and, 
writing with a pad upon his knees, he made some notes. 
He wrote for more than an hour, and then, carefully fold- 
ing his notes, he dropped them into the leather case. 

He seemed perceptibly brighter, stronger, and more 
cheerful when Dr. Rycroft visited him in the evening. The 
long day had spent itself quickly for him. 

Next day he asked again for the leather case, read his 
manuscript notes, and began to make some more. He wrote 
diligently, with an absorbed interest; and he seemed to 
be proud and pleased when he counted the sheets of paper 
that his busy pen had covered. 

That evening Dr. Rycroft spoke to him about his day’s 
employment. 

“ Lady Edith tells me that you have been writing for 
hours. Well, now, you know, we don’t want you to overdo 
it. And it occurs to me if there is anything you wish to 
get written, it would be wise to let your wife assist you — 
I mean, as amanuensis.” 


344 


THE REST CURE 

“ Oh, no, it is nothing of the least consequence. And I’m 
sure the writing hasn’t done me any harm.” 

“You look none the worse. I’ll answer for that. But, 
as I say, we don’t want you to fatigue yourself with that, 
or anything else.” 

“ No,” said Barnard, “ I like it. I enjoy it, and I won’t 
do too much.” 

In the course of the evening he spoke to his wife about 
what the doctor had said. 

“ Edie, my dear girl, you are too good to me. You watch 
over me like — like my guardian angel. And I’m very 
grateful to you, more grateful than I could ever express in 
words.” 

“ Jack, you mustn’t say it. I and not you have the causes 
for gratitude.” 

“ Nonsense,” and he smiled at her cheerfully. “ Look 
here. I didn’t tell you what I was doing to-day, because 
really I was ashamed to. It is so childish that I thought 
you’d laugh at me. But now I’ll tell you, and I don’t 
mind if you laugh. That kind chap Wainwright, who did 
such a lot for me when I was ill, used to chaff me about 
a lot of things; and he said that, however hard I tried, I 
should never have been able to be an author, because of 
certain qualifications that were wanting. I didn’t like that, 
you know, because years ago I had done a fair amount of 
journalism, and I didn’t see why I shouldn’t have been able 
to expand in any direction.” 

“ You would have been able. Whatever you attempted, 
you would have done well.” 

“ That’s the too indulgent opinion of a wife. But look 
here, Edie.” His eyes had brightened; the breathing 
seemed less difficult; he spoke firmly and gayly. “To-day, 

I have made the attempt. I have burst into authorship.” 

“ O Jack! Tell me what it was. A short story? ” 

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THE REST CURE 


“ No, a chapter of autobiography. The subject that was 
always a favorite with me — myself ” 

“ And you couldn’t have a better subject. But, Jack, do 
you mean that you really want to write your reminiscences 
— a whole book?” 

“ I want to make rough notes of my life, putting things 
in order and sequence, just for myself, not for publication — 
merely as a pastime. Do you think that ridiculous ? ” 

“No, Jack, no!” 

“ Of course I know the conditions under which I should 
be working — a magnum opus that would never be finished ; 
but I don’t intend to worry about that. You see, I’m al- 
ways thinking now, and it would be a pastime, just a pas- 
time, to put down the thoughts. And I believe the work, 
such as it is, would do me good.” 

“ Then try it, Jack.” She had taken his hand, and was 
gazing at him with eyes in which he could see her encour- 
agement, but could not read her pity. “Try it, and go on 
with it, unless Dr. Rycroft says it is too fatiguing for you.” 

On the following day he did not write at all. He told 
her that he was arranging his thoughts, surveying the ma- 
terials with which he intended to deal. He lay at full length 
on the couch, and he was apparently more comfortable than 
he had been for weeks. 

She sat with him throughout the day ; and, as the thoughts 
and memories rose in his mind, he often communicated them 
to her. He talked desultorily, sometimes not finishing a 
sentence, but passing from the broken words of one thought 
to the new words needed for the thought that had sup- 
planted it. 

“ When I retrace my steps, I see nothing but mistakes, 
thousands of mistakes, Edie. But one mistake stands out 
bigger than all — my egotism.” 

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THE REST CURE 


“ You were engrossed with business cares, but you were 
never an egotist. How could you be, when you were al- 
ways working for others ? ” 

“ You don’t think that really, but it is sweet of you to 
say it, Edie. You, of all people, suffered most from my 
selfishness. The work, the money-making and all the rest 
of it, became a selfishness. But I couldn’t see it, I couldn’t 
comprehend that I was doing wrong. Edie, you must for- 
give me that too, as you have forgiven me everything else.” 

“ There has been nothing to forgive.” 

“ I didn’t think . Wainwright slowly woke me up. He 
wouldn’t let me alone. He compelled me to think. When 
he first said I possessed a latent force of thought that I had 
disregarded and never employed, I wouldn’t believe. But 
he was right.” 

“ So now, Edie, this is really and truly what I want to 
do. I want to review my life for my better understanding 
of it. That sounds like a new and worse egotism, doesn’t 
it ? But if one has not the sort of faith that you — I won’t 
speak of that. I know it grieves you. I’ll put it imper- 
sonally and philosophically. One ought to grasp the mean- 
ing of a life before one drops it. It has been to me an 
untidy mass of facts; and this is how I want to test my 
power of thought. I want to turn upon the past the search- 
light of thought, to see all the facts again in this light. I 
believe the light will show me much that I used to miss, 
new connections, new relations, what reflective men dis- 
cover and what highly imaginative men are supposed to 
detect intuitively: the fine and subtle relations between ap- 
parently isolated phenomena. And you can help me, Edie — 
if you will.” 

“ I ask for nothing else but to help you. The more you 
let me help you, the prouder and the happier I shall be.” 


347 


XXXIV 


The Reminiscences were started, and his labor gave him 
intense pleasure. His brain was operating as it had never 
operated before, and he delighted in the sense of occupation 
and power. 

Pathetic to see, heart-breaking to think about, the con- 
demned prisoner making straw boxes in the cell that he 
will exchange only for the scaffold. Such trivial, useless 
work: yet something done by the poor wretch who thought 
he could do nothing more in this world ! 

He sat in a straight-backed chair, with an invalid’s desk 
adjusted at a convenient height to support his writing hand; 
chairs and tables beside him carried a litter of papers — as 
one entered the room and glanced at him from the threshold, 
he seemed a working man busy and happy at his work. 
When the sunlight streaming into the room fell upon his 
shrunken face, he looked like a ghost, a dead worker, who 
had returned to life, and who was finishing some work that 
death had stopped. 

Edith, helping in the work, observed the labored breath, j 
the hectic flush, the perspiration on his forehead, that were ■’ 
induced by the slightest physical effort, such as stooping 
to pick up a paper which had fallen to the floor; and she 
was very quick to spare him any exertion. 

Yet sometimes his pleasure and excitement gave him a 
semblance of the glow and vigor of health. And he was 
able to eat and digest his food after the labor, and on many 
nights he had easy, dreamless sleep. 

“ But you mustn’t do too much,” said Edith, in her calm, 

348 


THE REST CURE 


soothing voice, as a mother speaks to a child. “ Please 
remember I am here, your amanuensis, who isn’t at all 
flattered by being left idle. I can make out your roughest 
notes.” 

Dr. Rycroft encouraged and cheered the patient, and told 
Edith that he now thoroughly approved the programme of 
the days. 

“ Excellent,” said the doctor. t( This is a grand idea. 
His pulse shows a marked improvement. If I dared, I 
would express the opinion that in this last week he has been 
gaining ground.” 

And Edith’s own pulse beat stronger at the words. A 
flicker of hope for a moment flashed into and warmed her 
thoughts. Could it be possible, even now, that the decree 
i of fate might be reversed? Suppose this work proved a 

I medicine which might miraculously make him whole! 

“ It is certainly a grand idea,” said Dr. Rycroft, “ and 
the occupation of mind has undoubtedly proved beneficial. 
But—” 

Her pulse beat slower; the little flame of hope was gone. 
She scarcely listened to the doctor’s words as he went on 
talking to her; she had understood what the sudden pause 
! implied. 

He was saying that she might reassure herself as to the 
peril of overfatigue. He had come round to the view that 
any risk of that kind should not be further considered. 

“ No, Lady Edith, he won’t overdo it.” 

And after all! Perhaps the doctor also had the image 
: of the doomed man who is amusing himself in his cell. If 
one day when the warders look into the cell, they find a 
prisoner lying dead beside his work — well, can it matter 
very much? 

The days and weeks began to glide for them, and an ex- 
23 349 


THE REST CURE 


traordinarily peaceful hush fell upon these two. Fate was 
giving them both a respite from pain. 

Outside the windows, all round them, the life of trifles 
went on unnoticed. They two were alone in the quiet 
rooms. Visitors came no more to the villa. The man was 
busy, his wife was aiding him; and in the close compan- 
ionship of the happy, gliding days, they were drawing nearer, 
still nearer to each other. This was the companionship 
that they should have long since known; this, perhaps, was 
the something wanting which he had dimly perceived, and 
for which she had forlornly craved, the communion of 
spirit that is the growth of dual solitude and undisturbed 
sympathy. 

Or it was a last merciful gift of a pitilessly cruel fate, 
still one brief respite from their pain. 

She used to copy some of his notes and put others in 
chronological order; and the greatest help that she could 
render consisted of stimulating his memory, recalling names 
of people, supplying the dates of occurrences. He had at 
first attempted to take the years in sequence; but he was 
working without method now, following his thoughts as 
they came to him, taking any series of events in any year 
and writing his notes upon it until the thoughts were ex- 
hausted. Sometimes he filled the sheets rapidly; some- 
times a sheet contained only a few words; sometimes he put 
down only a single name. But the name would serve its 
purpose; unconsciously his mind would be working; soon 
the thoughts would come, and then he could return to the 
empty sheet and fill it. 

“ Cuthbertson ! That was a man who once did me a 
good turn. But he is a shadow. Nothing to say about 
him.” 

She had copied his quickly scribbled account of early days, 
and had learned the story of his youth for the first time: 

350 


THE REST CURE 


W or k — unresting work, as far back as one could see ! 
She had read some of his descriptions of the people with 
whom he worked in the Law Courts, and she praised him for 
these character sketches. She was continually encouraging 
him by praise; by her admiring appreciation she sustained 
his confidence and interest. 

“ I should like,” she said, “ to show this to your hyper- 
critical friend Dr. Wainwright. It is a splendid descrip- 
tion, worthy of the best authors.” 

“ Have I turned the chap inside out? That’s what I am 
trying to do, to let the light through and through people. 
It is what I never did.” 

And she assured him that he was succeeding in a manner 
that quite amazed her. 

Once or twice he boasted of his success. He would lay 
down his pen, and rub his thin hands together, and smile at 
her gleefully. 

“ Edie. I really am surprising myself. I have just un- 
raveled such a tangle.” 

“ Have you, Jack. Tell me about it.” 

“ Well, there was a man I was associated with for over 
two years when I first took up rubber. He was in the first 
six companies, but I never knew if he was playing fair and 
square with me; and at considerable expense I got rid of 
him. I put two and two together, and thought that we 
had better part. But all my thought was wrong: it wasn’t 
real thought.” 

“ What makes you suppose so, Jack?” 

" Because now I have turned him inside out.” He rubbed 
his hands, and his eyes glowed. “ I have probed to the 
bottom of that little mystery.” 

Then he explained the circumstances of these bygone 
financial operations, and the motives for duplicity which he 
had imputed to the doubtful associate. 

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THE REST CURE 


“Well, Edie, isn’t this curious? I see now what he was 
after, all the time, though I couldn’t see it then. I was 
wrong in every one of my deductions, such as they were; 
and yet by acting on them I was right. I couldn’t have 
foreseen the real danger in that man. He himself didn’t 
understand. But he would infallibly have upset our apple- 
cart. Isn’t it curious? Blind chance was guiding me. 
Reasoned thought might have floored me.” 

He was quite triumphant; and she applauded his suc- 
cess. 

On some days very little writing was done. But per- 
haps, while the pen remained inactive, his thoughts were 
still busily working. The task was checked, but not aban- 
doned. 

He used to talk musingly, in the happy freedom of their 
companionship, not needing to speak unless he pleased, feel- 
ing the sympathy between them growing stronger with each 
silent hour; and she listened or waited, never breaking the 
threads of his reverie, only prompting and aiding when he 
wished for her voice. 

“ All those friends of yours, Edie, all those friends who 
welcomed me because I was your husband, the people with 
the grand names and the grand houses where I followed 
my beautiful wife ; but how completely they have 
faded! Shadows! And the friends! Your friends, not 
mine, who came to our house. All so fond of you, 
and I was ready to be fond of them, if they had allowed 
me.” 

“ They were all fond of you. You were so kind to all of 
them.” 

“ Shadows! That is so curious. All things not really 
thought about belong to shadowland. Hundreds of peo- 
ple who come into one’s life merely as shadows. Or they 
352 


THE REST CURE 


would be real if they stayed in one’s life, but they pass out 
of it, returning to shadowland.” 

“ Yes,” she said, “ that is what I feel myself very often 
now when I think of people I once knew well.” 

He was silent for a little while; and then, taking up one 
of his notes, he began to ask her for names. 

“ Edie! The man who was Governor of Ceylon, a peer? 
You got hold of his wife for me. She came to dinner 
with us.” 

“You mean Lord Oxenholme.” 

“Yes, that’s the name. He was immensely useful to me. 
And I owed it all to you. You always helped me loyally 
— a wife in a milliort.” 

She protested against his praise. She constantly praised 
him; but when he praised her, a lump came in her throat 
and tears began to fill her eyes. When he spoke of his 
gratitude, the praise completely overwhelmed her. 

“ Edie ! Another name with nothing to it. Mrs. Clif- 
ton Hammond! There was a shadow. What happened 
to her? Why did we never see her again ? ” 

“ Oh, she was a stupid shadow. Surely you didn’t want 
to see her? ” 

“ No, but I had a crow to pick with Mrs. Clifton Ham- 
mond. I bore that good lady a slight grudge.” 

“A grudge! Why?” 

“ Well, you know, only as a matter of business. She con- 
descended to accept my money; but she didn’t trouble to 
earn it.” 

“ I don’t understand. How do you mean? ” 

“ I paid her to act as chaperon to my pretty, delicately- 
reared Edie, and she let you travel all the way from Cannes 
without a chaperon, without a maid even.” 

“ That was my fault, not hers. I required no chaperon 
for a train journey.” 


353 


THE REST CURE 


“Yes, but on her side, it wasn’t quite business. I am 
glad I never met her again. I should probably have said 
something rude, and be regretting it now.” 

So much to be regretted, but nothing here: not an un- 
kind word to a stupid shadow. 

In these talks, while the pen lay on the desk, he came back 
again and again to what he called his great mistake. 

“ There was a turning point in my life,” he said once, 
“ but I missed it. I went blundering on straight ahead, 
blindly, idiotically. It is so easy to see now, and yet it 
was impossible, utterly impossible to see then. The turn- 
ing point came, and was passed in the year after our mar- 
riage. ... I had won you , and I ought to have re- 
alized that I had won all . The fight was over, really. 
War should be made to gain peace and peace was offered to 
me then, and like a madman I wouldn’t take it. . . . 

You remember the autumn of that year? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ When I said I had no time for another holiday, it 
wasn’t true. That was the turning point. Everything 
was prospering; the work, all the work worth doing, was 
done; I had made enough money. You never wanted 
wealth. I told myself it was all for your sake; but that 
was never true. It was all for myself, not greediness 
for money, but a selfish, blind delight in the personal 
struggle.” 

“ Jack, don’t blame yourself. All you did, you thought 
best — for others.” 

“No — for myself. Egotism, selfishness. That was 
when I ought to have stopped, or at least have given a wise 
amount of time to other matters. Up to then I deserved 
credit. Yes, I do think, looking back at it, that the fight- 
ing my way up from the first to that point was creditable.” 

“ It was magnificent.” 


354 


THE REST CURE 


“ But after that, it was a hideous selfishness. And I 
underwent the deterioration that is caused by persistent sel- 
fishness. I became useless for others, useless for myself, if 
I could have understood. I was going downhill, not up- 
hill, as I believed. I was a man failing in the midst of 
fancied success, failing mentally and morally, until I began 
to spread misery all about me.” 

“ Jack, don’t think that, please don’t. It is not true. It 
never was true.” 

“ Yes, fatally true. And my work that was absorbing 
me, eating up me and my life, the work that seemed so 
tremendous and important, was nothing really. I wasn’t 
even necessary to it. Without me, it would have gone on. 
I thought I was the only man in the world to hold it all 
together, and yet a girl could do it. Grace, poor girl, 
wound up my affairs better than I could have done it my- 
self.” 

Then, hesitatingly, he spoke to her about his faithful sec- 
retary. 

" There was someone who should have remained among 
the shadows. She is real now, and I wish she was a shadow. 
Edie.” 

“ Yes?” 

“ In her last letter, the one I gave you to read, she said 
she was very happy. Do you believe that?” 

“ No. Not very happy, Jack, but contented.” 

“ She says she is happy to spare me from remorseful feel- 
ings, just to make me comfortable?” 

“ Yes. But, Jack, she will be happy. She is so young. 
Everything will help her to forget.” 

“ Edie, I would like to write to her again.” 

“ Yes — if you like. But don’t think of her. Or think of 
her as a shadow.” 

“ Edie, there is nothing you have ever done that has been 

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nobler and kinder than in helping me with that poor girl. 
Without you I should have been powerless. She would 
never have accepted anything from me alone.” 

“ Don’t think of her. She has a safe future, and happiness 
will come to her.” 

“ No, but only to thank you, and to bless you. Edie, you 
forgave. You understood.” 

And again he overwhelmed her with his words of grati- 
tude. 

“ That’s the sting that lies in my great mistake. The 
work was nothing, because you were all. And the love was 
always there, Edie — even in madness. All my life was 
wrapped up in you — if I could have understood.” 

So, with gray skies and blue skies, with the mistral blow- 
ing or the sun shining, the quiet days glided by them. She 
would have sat with him through every hour of the day; 
but he insisted that she should go for walks and drives. 
He liked her to be at his side, whether they made him stay 
in the house or per/nitted him to enjoy the soft air on the 
terrace; and yet he was resolute in sending her away from 
him. “ Edie, you must have exercise. As I tell you, I don’t 
want there to be two invalids instead of one. That would 
be a calamity to me, because I should lose all my exclusive 
rights and privileges.” 

One evening when she came into his room before starting 
for a late walk, he detained her for a few minutes while he 
talked about her family. 

“ I have been thinking of your people. Edie, wouldn’t 
you like to have some of them out here? ” 

“ No. I want no one but you.” 

“ But Geraldine, perhaps only Geraldine. Are you sure 
that you wouldn’t care to have her with you for company? ” 

“ No. I want no company but yours.” 

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“ Very well. I have been thinking of them a lot to-day. 
They have been very kind to me,” and he looked at her 
with the intent wistfulness that had become so familiar an 
expression on his face. “ Edie, they did really like me, 
didn’t they? ” 

“ Yes, they are all devoted to you.” 

“ Oh, that’s altogether too big a word. But, yes, I do 
think they liked me in the end. Edie, it was a great pleas- 
ure, an immense satisfaction to me, when I felt that I had 
overcome all the old hostility, and that I had gained their re- 
gard.” 

“ Their genuine affection, Jack.” 

“ Well, that is how it seemed, in my thoughts to-day. 
They all seemed transparent, goodness and kindness so clear 
that the light shone through them. All except one . 
Agatha, your sister Agatha! Something different, some- 
thing opaque in Agatha that blocked the light. Do you 
mind if I ask you some questions about Agatha? ” 

“ No, of course not.” 

“ Was she very fond of you? ” 

“Yes, I am sure she w r as.” 

“ I wonder how fond. Did you ever guess that she was 
jealous of my pretty Edie? ” 

“Jealous? Oh, no.” 

“ I think she was. I can’t tell you why. I mustn’t tell 
you, because that was a secret, a confidence. But I may say 
this. Once upon a time Agatha herself gave me my reason 
for thinking there was some queer sort of jealousy. Now I 
am thinking about her health. What put it wrong origi- 
nally? Don’t answer yet. Let me go on thinking. Was 
it an unhappy love affair? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Ah ! There’s a lucky shot. Some disappointment in 
love which set her fretting and pining, till the health went 
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wrong. • That’s sad. But you came into it, Edie. How 
was that? ” 

Edith had drawn a chair to the couch ; and she sat before 
him, eagerly watching his thoughtful face. 

“ What makes you guess that / came into it? ” 

“ The jealous feelings that Agatha could not suppress, 
even after many years. Am I right in my guess ? ” 

“Yes, you are right.” 

“ Then this was the disappointment. The person who 
ought to have fallen in love with Agatha fell in love with 
you.” 

“Jack! You, you startle me by — by your guesses. 
Did father hint at this, or tell you all about it, and now it 
is coming back to you as a memory, and not just guess- 
work? ” 

“ No, it is guess-work. Your father never spoke of it. 
You shall tell me about it, if you will. But, Edie, not an- 
other word, if you think it is unkind or disloyal to Agatha 
to give me the story.” 

“ Yes, I’ll tell you. It was a curate at Setley. Agatha 
used to be' always at church, and helping him. Father and 
mother liked him and asked him to the house, and didn’t 
find out till it was too late that — that — ” 

“ That Agatha had played her stake and lost it.” 

“Yes. Of course it would have been almost impossible 
anyhow. He had no money. But Agatha thought he 
meant — she thought he wanted — ” 

“ Wanted Agatha, when it was Edith that he dared to 
want.” 

“Yes. I didn’t know — I didn’t understand any more 
than she did — until — ” 

“ Until, unexpectedly, he paid you his unwelcome ad- 
dresses.” 

“ Yes.” 


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“ They were unwelcome, quite unwelcome? ” 

“ Oh, yes.” 

“ You didn’t care for him? ” 

il No, not in the very least.” 

“ But Agatha did care for him.” 

“Yes, dreadfully.” 

“ Well, my dear, she never forgave you. She tried to 
forgive you but she failed. I am sorry for Agatha, very 
sorry, and at last I understand her.” 

The talk had excited him. He began to cough; and 
when the cough ceased, his cheeks were flushed and beads 
of perspiration gathered upon his forehead ; but his eyes were 
bright, and he smiled joyously. 

“ Edie, how’s that for a success? What do you think of 
my search-light ? Agatha was a puzzle : Agatha is ex- 
plained. In Agatha’s case I may fairly claim that the 
light has filled the spaces between apparently disconnected 
events.” 

“ Yes,” she said, watching the signs of his excitement, and 
speaking slowly and soothingly. “ You have really been 
marvelously successful. It is quite marvelous.” 

But this success had startled her. As presently she 
walked away from the house, she carried a vague fear with 
her. 

The search-light of thought! The words followed her 
with recurrent vibrating echoes. The search-light of 
thought! She could hear his voice uttering the words, she 
could see his eyes gazing at her with wistful triumph. The 
search-light of thought! As she walked through the gray 
shadow of the olive trees and thence into the darker gloom 
of the pines, the words and the voice and the eyes haunted 
her. 

When, after an hour’s fast walking, she came back, she 
knew that fear had returned with her to the house. It was 
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not dread of the certainly approaching sorrow; it was an 
old fear in a new shape, vague but large, a fear rolling in 
waves between her and her love. 

The respite from pain was over. 


XXXV 


He was ill again. 

There had come a sharp attack in the night; the man- 
servant who was at once valet and sick-nurse had been per- 
haps unnecessarily alarmed, and terrified confusion swept 
through the whole household. While the doctor was being 
fetched, the patient became half unconscious; and to those 
watching him it seemed that he would suffocate. And ap- 
pliances for giving relief failed. Edith and the valet could 
not, for some inexplicable reason, manipulate the screws 
and valve of the heavy oxygen cylinder that for weeks had 
lain in the room as a provision for exactly such an emergency 
as had now occurred. Screws that would not turn, bolts 
that would not yield; the breath of life was sealed in a 
black iron jar, and the sinking man gasped, choked, and 
writhed. Edith’s hands were torn and bleeding when the 
doctor at last arrived. 

Dr. Rycroft was active, skillful; soon able to reassure 
the watchers. A sharp attack, but it was passing off. Dr. 
Rycroft remained in the house, would not leave his patient 
till the night had long gone and the sun was shining fairly 
high in the limpid blue sky. 

“ He is all right now,” said Dr. Rycroft. “If he can 
sleep, so much the better. But if he wishes to get up and 
go into the other room, let him do so. It promises to be a 
nice fine day: he might be wheeled out to the terrace, per- 
haps.” 

“ Suppose he wants to write? ” 

“ Oh, well, yes, let him write. Study his inclinations. 

36l 


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If you see that he is fidgety from doing nothing — well, let 
him do whatever he fancies.” 

“ But, Dr. Rycroft ” — Edith was still shaky and tremu- 
lous after the panic of the night, “ I wish to speak to you 
about the writing. I think — I am almost sure that he has 
done enough.” 

“What makes you think that?” 

“ I am afraid of his going on with it. I think you ought 
to stop him — if you can.” 

“ Oh, no. It would be the greatest pity, believe me. 
You know, this attack was really over-due. It wasn’t 
brought about by anything he has done with his writing.” 

“But I know there’s danger in it — in what he is do- 
ing.” 

“ Not a bit,” said Dr. Rycroft, reassuringly. 

“ It is a constant strain. I feel it. The effort that he 
must feel. I know it is dangerous.” 

“ Well, of course,” said Dr. Rycroft, “ if you really think 
so. But no, Lady Edith, honestly, you can trust me. 
This idea of his was a godsend to us. You see, it is oc- 
cupation without agitation: it just keeps his mind engaged, 
and prevents him from brooding dejectedly.” 

Nevertheless, Dr. Rycroft promised that he would not 
adhere obstinately to an opinion which might after all prove 
fallacious; he would observe his patient from day to day 
with the greatest carefulness; and, if he detected indications 
of danger in the daily work, he would interfere with the 
work. 

But do not let us interfere hastily. Let the doomed pris- 
oner go on making straw boxes in his cell, if possible to the 
limit of the hours available for work or for thought. 

The note-making had been resumed. 

Edith, after a sleepless night, was transcribing a well- 
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filled sheet, and he sat with his pen in his hand, not writing 
now, only thinking. 

“ Edie.” 

“ Yes?” 

“ Cyril Stewart, that cousin of yours! What happened 
to Cyril Stewart ? ” 

“ How do you mean — happened to him ? ” 

She had got up from her chair; and she stood at the win- 
dow, readjusting the cord of the sun-blind. 

“ I mean, what is he doing with himself ? Do you know 
where he is ? ” 

“ The last time I heard of him, he was living at a place 
in Warwickshire, and trying to make money by horse-breed- 
ing, I believe.” 

“ Then he never married his rich widow ? ” 

“Rich widow? I don’t understand.” 

She had lowered the sun-blind and tied up the cord. Be- 
fore she turned again toward the couch, she stretched her 
arm through the casement, and broke off a stem from the 
climbing rose-tree that was sending the perfume of its clus- 
tered blossoms into half the rooms of the house. 

“Your father used to say that the silly women couldn’t 
resist Mr. Stewart, and that he ought to pick up some rich 
widow before his charms began to wane.” 

“ Yes?” 

“ And do you know, I quite thought he had found her — 
the rich widow — when — ” He stopped speaking, and 
looked at his wife admiringly. “ Edie, you are like a picture 
in a frame. The window is the frame, and the background 
is all yellow light, and you are just a dark figure, a beautiful, 
mysterious figure on a wall of sunshine. That’s what no 
artist could paint. And it is the figure of a young girl, 
quite a young girl.” 

“Is it?” 


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She had lifted the roses to her face, and the hand that 
held the broken stem was trembling. 

“Yes,” he said, going back to his interrupted thought, 
“ I never felt more sick about any piece of business than 
when he flatly refused to take up the opening I had secured 
for him. I thought afterwards that he must have found 
the rich widow, or have had something very good up his 
sleeve. That w T ould have accounted for it.” 

“ But there — there was nothing to account for. I am 
sorry that we ever asked you to trouble about him. He 
was not worth your trouble.” 

“ He didn’t like me. Why? I don’t know. I suppose 
there was some sort of reciprocity in the feeling. ‘ I do not 
like thee, Dr. Fell. The reason why, I cannot tell.’ That 
was his air with me always; and I suppose I hadn’t been 
able to hide what I thought of him. No, he and I would 
never have hit it off.” 

“ It would be impossible for any two men to be more 
unlike.” 

“Yes, he was to be classed with the lilies of the field — 
no spinning, nor toiling; and I — But it wasn’t toiling 
that I offered to his lordship. It really was just what 
would have suited him — hunting and shooting, luxurious 
quarters. And yet he wouldn’t take it, wouldn’t take it 
from me. Almost inexplicable, if you come to think of 
it.” 

“ But nothing could be more simple to explain. You 
explained it yourself.” 

“ How did I explain it? ” 

“You said he was one of the people that it is impossible 
to help.” 

“ Did I ? I wonder if that was right. No, something 
opaque there.” He rubbed his hands together, and 
chuckled contentedly. “ Edie, I must make a note, and 

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turn Mr. Stewart inside out. Will you mind if I set the 
search-light upon our debonair cousin?” 

“ I don’t think the subject deserves so much attention.” 

‘No, I don’t think so either. I’ll leave him alone. I 
dare say I misjudged him. I put him down as an amiable 
type of the grown-up child who doesn’t count cost, but 
grasps at the pleasures of life, takes what he wants and 
doesn’t care who pays for it.” 

“ Yes, that was a correct judgment.” 

“Was it? No, it won’t match. It leaves an empty 
space. His tone with me, when he refused the job, didn’t 
match with that judgment. He wouldn’t accept the benefit. 
It was as if my lord’s pride wouldn’t allow him to take 
a benefit from my plebeian hands. But I am working in a 
circle. I said he didn’t like me.” 

The days were gliding past him ,* but for her, time seemed 
to stand still. The peaceful happiness had gone from her, 

| and there came no further respite. The close companion- 
ship in the silent room began to drain her of vitality, to 
exhaust her nerves, to destroy her reasoning power. She was 
the helpless prey of fear. 

But the patient seemed all right, and not in the smallest ' 
degree suffering from his daily employment. Dr. Rycroft 
saw no harm in the work. Then the work must go on. 

The garden overflowed with the gay spring flowers; the 
oranges had ripened; the warm air hung heavy on the land, 
and only the faintest breeze floated across the dazzling 
water. 

Edith was sitting by the open window, her hands folded 
in her lap, her eyes half closed. The sick man was reading 
unsorted notes; and, while he read, his thoughts flashed 
here and there, backwards and forwards, through the dead 
years. 


24 


365 


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“ Edie, I have come to the year of our great loss. Give 
me her miniature.” 

She slowly rose from her chair, fetched the oval frame 
from the writing-desk, and slowly went behind his couch. 

“ There it is,” stooping over his shoulder, she put the 
miniature into his hand. 

He looked at it attentively, and did not speak, but she 
knew that he was thinking. 

“ Now let me take it from you.” Her voice had sunk to 
a whisper, and she put her hand over his shoulder again. 
“ Don’t look at it any more. Don’t think of sadness and 
sorrow.” 

“ No, I won’t think of it.” 

And she took the miniature, replaced it on the desk, and 
returned to her chair by the window. 

“ Edie, you are wise. I won’t think of our sorrows. 
I’ll work back to happy times — before all the sorrow. I’ll 
think of that time when our little coldness was swept away, 
and my wife came home with love in her kind eyes. That 
was one of the greatest pleasures of my life, the night when 
I found you waiting for me, and you told me that the sun- 
shine had warmed your heart, and the coldness had gone out 
of it.” 

Then he was silent for a little while. 

“ Edie, I have been trying to see you out there, at Cannes, 
but I am not able. How did you amuse yourself ? ” 

“ I did nothing. I felt so ill.” 

“Yes, at first. But you soon got well. In one of your 
letters you spoke of playing golf, but you didn’t play, did 
you ? ” 

“ Oh, no.” 

“ Now, I have come round to your cousin again. You 
said you met Cyril Stewart at Cannes. What was he 
doing? ” 


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“ Very little good, I’m afraid.” 

“ Gambling?” 

“ Yes, I think so, and playing golf, and shooting pigeons. 
He went away on somebody’s yacht.” 

“ Just idling through the winter, spending all his money. 
And yet, when I gave him the chance of money — that 
brings me back to the unanswered question. Why?” 

“ Jack, don’t waste your thoughts. It is your life you 
are writing, not the lives of other people.” 

“ No, but people who came into my life.” 

“ He never came into your life. He belongs to the 
shadows. You might as well busy yourself with the cabmen 
who drove you, or the constituents who called upon you at 
the House of Commons.” 

“Yes, that’s true. So many shadows.” 

And he went on talking about her stay at Cannes. 

“ Jack, that all belongs to my life. Leave that out.” 

She had moved from the window, and was once more 
standing behind the couch. As she spoke, she rested her 
hands lightly on his shoulders, and then stooped and kissed 
his forehead. 

“ It is a blank,” he said. “ Won’t you fill it in for me? ” 

“ It is a blank for me.” 

“ How do you mean ? ” 

“ Because I was utterly miserable — ill — not myself — 
far away from you. I only want to remember the time I 
was with you.” 

He was squeezing her hand, and holding it against his 
sunken chest. 

“ Edie, my darling, what a wife you have been to me. 
You and I should never have separated for a day — if I 
could have understood before it was too late.” 

“ We are together now. Think of nothing else.” 

“ Yes, when I think of those months of your absence, I 

367 


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am lost. No memories, because you were away from me. 
And yet — do you know ? I never really missed you.” 

“You were so hard at work.” 

“ No. It was because I was only using narrow areas of 
my brain. I had shut myself up — in myself. I was like 
some one who believes that he is living in a snug, com- 
fortable, substantially built room. All round him are dark 
shadows thrown from unseen objects, and he believes that 
the shadows are walls. Now , when I think of it, I see no 
walls, but vast untrodden space all round me, stretching 
mystery, infinite doubt. Then , you were gone — beyond 
my walls — and you had ceased to exist. That is, I mean, 
I could not follow you in thought; I could not conjure up 
your image. There was just a blank. Yet now I believe 
I could fill all the blank, follow you day by day, be with 
you always, though you were hundreds of miles away.” 

“ I came back to you.” 

“Yes, yes. You came back with love in your eyes. You 
were my own true wife — till I lost you once again. But 
we won’t think of that.” 

She was afraid of the room, but her love for the man in 
it held her. She was bound to him now till death should 
them part. Pity and love and agonized terror mingled in 
flame-like thought to weld the bond that held her fast. 

She feared the whole house, but she would not fly from 
it. When she looked out at the sunlit garden and the 
open sea, she seemed to be looking at life and safety. When 
she turned from the window, she seemed to be looking at 
death and despair. And madness lurked in the house, as 
well as destiny and doom: the house was full of shadows 
and of ghosts. Often during the sleepless nights she be- 
lieved that madness would seize her. The pain of her or- 
deal was more than she could bear. 

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All except the dying man had sunk into nothingness. 
She could think only of him. Her love of her children 
was obliterated, or was rendered automatic in its sensa- 
tions and its expressions; she talked to them and did not 
see them ; she kissed the boy, or snatched the girl to her 
bosom, smoothed her pretty hair, fondled and caressed her, 
but all without thought. Her parents, her brothers and 
sisters were forgotten, or had changed from living friends 
into pallid shadows. He was everything; all else was noth- 
ing. With him or away from him, she was possessed by 
him and governed by him. In thought as well as in deed 
she was his faithful slave. 

When she was with him in the house she felt that they 
two were alone, crouching side by side in black darkness, 
and something impalpable and tremendous was sweeping 
round, hovering above them, pressing them down. When 
she was away from him, outside the house, she felt as if 
he and she v/ere standing face to face in a circle of brilliant 
light, and that all round them was the darkness from which 
they had just emerged. 

He still forced her to go for walks, but she always 
waited now until night was falling. 

Sometimes when she hurried out into the air, she had 
during a few minutes a sense of freedom and satisfaction, 
and she walked fast away from the house; in her longing 
for more air and quicker movement, almost ran along 
the empty road. But then her breath failed, her feet 
became leaden, and then the house began to draw her back 
to it. 

The house was holding her in its relaxed grip, and the 
grip began to fasten with constricting bands round her 
heart, tightening and burning — what she imagined that he 
might be feeling now. The distant house drew her back 
into itself. In imagination she felt his pain. She could not 

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breathe; barbed arrows pierced her bosom; the cool air 
changed to fire as it entered her lungs. 

She stopped and hesitated, retraced her steps slowly; then 
walked faster and faster through the olive wood, till the road 
turned and she saw the house. Light from an upper win- 
dow. All quiet, no voices, no confusion; nothing has hap- 
pened. The house is as it was just now. 

She could take her walk in another direction, downward, 
round the house, past the lamp-light from his window, then 
through the garden and along the shore. And this she tried 
to do, but failed. The house drew her back again: not by 
pain this time, but by pity. 

He would be lonely — he liked to have her with him. 

“ Edie, my dearest girl. Back so soon ? ” 

He looked up when she came into the lamp-light of the 
room, and she could read all the pleasure that the sight of 
her had brought him. 

“ But, Edie, you haven’t had a proper walk. You have 
been gone no time.” 

“ Ah,” she said, gayly, “ that means, you didn’t miss me.” 
“ Edie!” 

And she felt her heart melt in pity, more than a mother’s 
love of a child, the yearning pity that is only aroused by 
dependent weakness where once there has been self-reliant 
strength. 

“ I like to be with you,” she whispered. 

And so on till the night gave him sleep, and through the 
night, she suffered the mingled pain of impotent pity, hopeless 
love, and maddening fear till another day broke, and she 
could think, will he be with me still when another night 
falls? 


XXXVI 


There had been one more slight attack, and Dr. Rycroft 
traced the cause now to worry or agitation. 

Had anything occurred to upset the patient? Yes, Lady 
Edith told the doctor that she was to blame. It seemed 
that a long wet day spent indoors with her husband had 
produced an ill effect on her nerves; want of sleep, want of 
air, the gray sky, the patter of the rain on the terrace, all 
things had combined to depress her spirits and shake her 
courage, and toward the end of the day morbid fears had 
taken possession of her. Her husband was working at his 
notes, had been working off and on throughout this rainy 
day; and she, believing that the fatigue would be too much 
for him, believing that the work had danger in it, suddenly 
appealed to him to lay the work aside for ever. 

Lady Edith described the scene to Dr. Rycroft, and bit- 
terly reproached herself. 

“ I was hysterical, and I didn’t think of results. I 
spoke too suddenly, too violently. I didn’t remember his 
great weakness.” 

“ But I am sure that nothing you could say would dis- 
tress him.” 

“ It did. I tell you it did,” and Lady Edith wrung her 
hands, and for a few moments gave way to convulsive grief. 
“ It is I who have made him ill. / distressed him.” 

“ Well, well,” said Dr. Rycroft, very kindly, “ we can be 
more careful henceforth. The strain upon you is so severe. 
But now, Lady Edith, you mustn’t, you really mustn’t agi- 
tate yourself.” 


37i 


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This hysterical outbreak alarmed Dr. Rycroft. Up to 
now his admiration for Lady Edith’s fortitude and com- 
posure had been steadily increasing. But she said she was 
hysterical yesterday, and obviously she was hysterical to-day. 
This sort of thing would not do at all. 

“ I asked him,” she cried, “ for God’s sake to stop all this. 
I said, ‘ you have done enough. It is wasting time — our 
little time of love.’ ” 

“ Oh! I am certainly sorry you said that to him. That 
was perhaps a remark calculated to upset him.” 

“ It did. I have told you that it did. But I couldn’t 
help it. I had to say it. You don’t understand what he 
and I are to each other — what my love is. I was fighting 
for our love. Nothing else matters.” 

“ My dear Lady Edith, no one can see you together with- 
out understanding your devotion. I assure you that my 
wife and I — ” 

“ Then don’t let him go on. He has done enough. Use 
your influence. Stop him. Keep him quiet, keep him happy 
— in our little time of love.” 

That evening Dr. Rycroft had two patients. Lady 
Edith as well as her husband demanded skill and attention. 
This hysteria, natural product of sleeplessness and anxiety, 
must be cured at once ; or there would be heavy trouble in a 
little while, when the supreme strain came. Dr. Rycroft, 
with the aid of drugs, succeeded in giving Lady Edith some 
much needed sleep. 

In the morning she was herself again, stately and self- 
composed as she talked with the doctor, thanking him for his 
tabloids, altogether reassuring him as to her condition. 

And the other patient had done well. It had been really 
a slight attack, with but little pain and only a brief phase 
of breathlessness. 

He might venture to get up, be dressed and carried into 
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his sitting-room. But for to-day, and to-morrow, in fact, for 
the present, no work. After all, it is wisest and best to be 
on the safe side. Note-making and so on may appear to be a 
very light occupation; but we have to measure effort rather 
by our capacity for effort than by its extent; and one must 
remember that behind any sustained form of writing there 
is necessary a certain driving power of thought. Indeed, 
strenuous thinking is sometimes required to keep one’s pen in 
motion. 

“ So, for the present — ” 

And once more Barnard comprehended that those words, 
“ for the present,” were used by the doctor in lieu of the 
other words which would better have expressed his mean- 
ing. He meant “ for the future.” 

“ Very well,” said the patient, wearily. “ It shall be as 
you and my wife wish. That is, I’ll stop writing — but I 
can’t stop thinking.” 

They had wheeled the writing-desk back to the wall and 
put the leather case out of sight. For a week he had not 
touched the portfolio or examined any of the manuscript 
notes : the poor prisoner had been deprived of his toys. 

The task was stopped; but the inexorable, indestructible 
work of thought went on. He sat by the closed window 
thinking deeply. 

In the garden, dusk, as it deepened, was beginning to hide 
the color of the flowers. Just now he had watched his wife 
passing across the terrace and down the steps beneath the 
laden branches of the orange-trees. She had paused on the 
steps, looking back, kissing her hand, then waving it toward 
his window, and he had seen the color of the scarf round 
her throat; but already the shadows had invaded the spot 
where she stood. The golden fruit on the boughs had be- 
come dim and gray, and the white stone balustrade was 

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mingling with the dark green of the foliage. Beyond the 
steps, where she had disappeared, all was shadow. 

Looking out over the garden, he had the pleasant view that 
seemed to him as familiar as if it had lain before him for a 
lifetime. There was still color here; a splendid sunset sky, 
rose-tinted, with glowing, fiery yellow bands stretched low 
across the distant hills, shedding its reflected light upon the 
water, the harbor, and the shore. There was light on the 
summit of the tower at the pier end, and he could still make 
out the brown and white sails of fishing boats creeping 
slowly home to their sheltered anchorage. A beautiful, 
pleasant world it seemed to him, as he gazed through his 
thin glass screen at the hills that he would never climb, at 
the wide sea that he would never cross. 

“ Shall I bring in the lamps, sir ? ” 

His servant had come into the darkening room. 

“ No, thank you, not till her ladyship returns.” 

“ Very good, sir.” 

And the servant left him alone again with his thoughts. 

The flame-bright bands of cloud had broken and fallen 
asunder; and the color swiftly went from them, as when 
some iridescent substance grows cold. They had seemed 
like chains of fire ; then, as their links broke, they seemed to 
grow solid and hard ; now they crumbled into red dust, into 
purple smoke; and now the smoke was rising to join the 
crimson vapor that so soon would change to night. The 
sharp, firm gables of the old houses near the pier were melt- 
ing, mingling; the roofs had run into one another; the 
shadow of the massed buildings had absorbed the roadway 
and the quay. One could see the bulk of anchored boats, 
though the masts and spars had gone. But the noble tower 
stood high and strong, still defying the onslaught of the 
shadows. 

And as the pretty view thus faded, he thought of all the 

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things that were fading from him. Familiar, pleasant, 
loved objects, all the things that he had leant on as solid 
and real in his life, things familiar, loved, but never under- 
stood until they began to fade; all, nearly all, had gone 
from him. Soon the darkness would blot out all. 

And he thought of the most precious object, the best 
loved, the treasure inestimable and priceless. 

He thought of his wife. 

He was thinking of his wife with strenuous, despairing 
earnestness. 

Outside, the darkness had swallowed everything. The 
solid tower, clearly defined against the sky, was the last of 
the familiar objects to go. Inside the room, a deeper dark- 
ness wrapped him round. He was alone in the black void, 
motionless as a dead man, and still the work of his thought 
went on. 

He thought of the children she had given to him, the 
children who would live after him, the child who had died 
before him. 

He was thinking of the dead child. 

With a loud cry he had sprung out of his chair, and in 
the darkness was staggering about the room. The yell of 
pain, reaching far through the silent house, brought his valet 
and other servants. Lamps carried in shaky hands, the 
room full of light; and the terrified servants saw their mas- 
ter, feebly and confusedly tried to aid him. His face was 
livid, frightfully contorted ; he was gasping for breath, tear- 
ing open the collar of his shirt; and then, as if maddened 
by pain, he struck his chest with a clenched hand. Until 
they held his arms he frantically beat upon his chest, as if to 
force air into the ruined lungs or to smash the struggling life 
out of them for ever. 

The servants, restraining him, supporting him, and at last 

375 


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bearing him to the bed in the other room, were all glad that 
Lady Edith was out of the way. She had been spared the 
sight of him during the first frenzy of the seizure. When 
she came hurrying to the door, he was quiet again: utterly 
exhausted, and perhaps scarcely conscious. 

This proved to be the beginning of a terribly severe at- 
tack. A long-drawn agony, intermittently acute torture 
for three days; and then a slow retreat of the pains, and a 
weakness that seemed to be leading to the final collapse. 
Fainting fits, choking fits, impossibility to lie down, no com- 
fort, however high they prop him up; white lips, and bluish 
tint on the hollow cheeks; eyes that seem to stare in a 
terrified apprehension of more and still more cruelties from 
the iron grip of fate; voice that has become a faint and 
catchy whisper, a mere echo of the voice that used to be 
heard; a living creature being done to death through the 
endless hours; and the mind of the racked and broken 
wretch quite clear still, a flame that must burn bright and 
strong till the horrible doom is accomplished. 

This is the atrocious sentence of a vague, barbaric past, 
driving one mad even to think of ; death, but torture first. 

He would not allow his wife to stand by and watch. 

“Edith,” he gasped, “go away. You, you are not to 
come in here.” 

And Dr. Rycroft, deaf to her entreaties, enforced the 
patient’s command. 

“Who is that?” Each time that the door opened, the 
patient whispered the question. “ Keep my wife out of the 
room. Edith, I pray you not to come in here.” 

Once she asked him from the threshold if the pain had 
lessened. 

“ No,” he whispered, “ I am tasting more than the bitter- 
ness of death.” 


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Then Dr. Rycroft told her that the patient must be obeyed. 

“You have agitated him. Your presence makes it more 
difficult for him. Lady Edith, you must really control your 
feelings, and not disturb him again. Yes, he is better to-day. 
Yes, I believe that he will pull through it.” 

“ When will you let me see him ? ” 

“ The moment that he himself is willing to see you. But 
remember, it is vital to avoid agitation. Any agitation now 
might be immediately fatal.” 

It was the doctor’s duty still to guard against the fatality 
that would bring a release from torment; he must fight 
for each day’s life, as though life was still an inestimable 
boon ; and he fought staunchly and loyally. But he himself 
felt the overpowering strain of these first three days, and 
he was visibly shaken after every visit to the sick-room. 

“ Well,” he used to say, with what cheerfulness he could 
summon, “ how are you now r ? ” 

And the patient groaned while the doctor stooped to 
listen for the whispered answer. 

“ I am passing through hell-fire.” 

“ Well, now, how do you find yourself this morning? ” 

“ I am paying my debts in full,” and the patient moaned, 
and panted for breath. “ I am like a man who — who — 
in his folly — ran up a monstrous bill, and paid it with all 
he had on earth.” 

These and other answers of a similar tenor shook the good 
doctor lamentably. 

Then came, after three days, the slow retreat of bodily 
anguish, with the period of threatened collapse ; then, gradu- 
ally, some slight diminution of weakness, and perhaps even 
some slight increase of strength. 

“ What w^e have fought for has been gained. The patient 
has not slipped through our fingers. This is not the end — 
not quite the end yet.” 


377 


XXXVII 


At his own request, they had brought him out of the bed- 
room ; and his wife was allowed to be with him. 

He was sitting once again in the big chair by the window. 
The cushions behind his back and head enabled him to keep 
erect; and he grasped the arms of the chair, and slightly 
changed his position from time to time without accepting 
any aid from his companion. The faintly bluish tint that 
Dr. Rycroft feared and recognized was perceptible upon 
the waxen color of the face ; the breathing was shallow and 
rapid ; and the bony hands, when now and then they 
moved, had wavering, meaningless gestures. He did not 
often speak, but stared with glassy, glittering eyes at 
the golden oranges and the red and white roses outside the 
window. 

When the rug slid down from his knees, Edith came from 
the side of the room, and gently replaced it. Then he 
looked at her and spoke to her. 

“ Edith, please don’t trouble about me. Tell my man to 
do things.” 

“ Jack,” she said, in a voice almost as low as his, “ I 
would like to wait upon you.” 

“ You are very kind.” 

While she covered his knees with the rug, it seemed to 
her that he shrank backwards in the chair, as if he dreaded 
her touch. And after he had looked at her for a moment, 
a film seemed to come over the vitreous brightness of his 
eyes, so that the glance she met was dim and veiled as if 
he had ceased really to see her. 

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She drew away from him; and as his eyes turned to the 
window again, they glittered and grew bright. 

She went to her seat by the side of the room, and waited 
and watched. He called her Edith, and not Edie; he asked 
her to let servants attend to his wants ; he begged her not to 
trouble about him. Her eyes were hot and dry; the blood 
throbbed and burned in her veins ; she tried vainly to moisten 
her lips with her parched tongue. 

His servant brought him food, helped him to eat a 
little; and his wife sat neglected, unseen, forgotten. No, 
not forgotten. He was asking the man to tell him 
the time. Then, without looking round, he spoke to his wife 
again. 

“ Edith, it is a pity to miss this fine day. Don’t trouble 
about me. Please go out for your walk.” 

But she would not leave her post. His had been a request 
and not a command. He had not ordered her out of the 
room. She was watching and waiting: and so the day 
passed, very slowly, very silently, till the sun was low in the 
west. 

Dr. Rycroft came in and out frequently. He had ar- 
ranged that he would sleep at the villa to-night, in order, 
as he said, to be close at hand should advice be required. 
Now he and the servant were again in the room, and the 
patient was asking permission to remain in his chair instead 
of being carried back to bed. The doctor immediately con- 
sented. 

“ By all means. Yes, stay here for a little while longer, 
if you think you are more comfortable here.” 

“ Yes, I think I am more comfortable.” 

“ Very good, and then, if you should feel tired, directly 
you would like to move, well, just let us know.” 

“ Thank you — Rycroft. Thank you.” 

Edith followed the doctor out of the room, and talked with 

379 


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him in the corridor while the servant gave her husband a 
little more food. 

“ Dr. Rycroft. He is sinking, isn’t he? Surely this is 
the end.” 

“ Oh, no. Dear me, no. We must still hope — ” 

“ Hope! What are you hoping for? ” 

Dr. Rycroft silently took her hand, and held it. 

“ What is it? Are you feeling my pulse? I am all right 

— quite Calm. But I want to know. I must know how 
much time he has.” 

“ Lady Edith, I am sure you will be brave. You are 
prepared — you have prepared yourself? ” 

“ Yes, I am prepared.” 

“ Well, then — probably a very short time now,” and 
Dr. Rycroft anxiously scrutinized her face. 

“ Will he have any more pain? ” 

“ No, I don’t think so. I hope that he will escape any- 
thing approaching to further pain.” 

“ And when — can’t you tell me when ? ” 

“ My dear Lady Edith, it is impossible to say. In his 
present condition he might conceivably last for another week 

— or even more. On the other hand — by to-morrow 
morning he may be unconscious.” 

“ Unconscious? ” 

“Yes, that would not surprise me. There will be some 
sort of change — which will be seen quite plainly — by you 
as well as by me; and then he might sink into unconscious- 
ness. That might happen quickly. We should be pre- 
pared for its happening.” 

“And after that — the unconsciousness?” 

“ It would be a question of hours.” 

“ You’ll let me be with him? ” 

“ Oh, yes, I think you ought to be with him now.” 

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THE REST CURE 

She spoke calmly and collectedly, and the doctor was 
well pleased by her steadiness and courage. 

“And, Dr. Rycroft, if he talks to me — will that be 
dangerous? May he talk?” 

“ Oh, yes. But he does not show any inclination to talk, 
does he? ” 

“ No, not as yet.” 

She went back into the room; and the servant withdrew, 
leaving them alone together. 

He had slightly turned in his chair, and the rug again 
fell to the floor. 

She came and stood in front of the chair; and again she 
saw him shrink. 

“ Jack, don’t be cruel to me.” 

“Am I cruel?” 

He uttered the words with a firmness and strength that 
seemed miraculous. 

“ Please let me help you.” 

“ I am past help.” 

In the voice there was sadness; and behind the voice, in 
measureless depths, there lay a sadness unspeakable, a black 
sea of despair, out of which there came a chilling, icy wind 
that crept through her veins, numbing and freezing her 
blood. 

She had lifted the rug; and now she knelt before him, 
bowing her head till her lips reached his knees. As she 
kissed the rough surface of the rug, she felt that he had 
shivered and feebly moved his legs. 

“ Jack, don’t you want me to touch you? ” 

He did not answer. 

“ Jack, aren’t you ever going to speak to me? ” 

“ Yes, I want to speak to you, but I am getting tired.” 

85 38l 


THE REST CURE 


She had put her arms round his legs, and she was holding 
them to her, with her face against his knees. 

“ Jack, speak to me.” 

“Yes, but give me a little time. Then — let them take 
me to bed. I am getting tired.” 

“ May I stay here — on the ground — at your feet? ” 

She had lowered her arms and her head, and now she lay 
with her forehead pressed against his feet. 

He did not reply to her question; he was summoning 
force; he was bracing himself for effort. 

“ Edith — I have been thinking of things that you once 
said to me; and there are things that I want to know.” 
After the pause, his voice was marvelously firm. “ When 
your child died, and you told me it was God’s judgment, I 
didn’t understand your thought.” 

“ You were merciful to me.” 

“ ‘ God’s hand upon you.’ That’s what you said ; but I 
told you not to harbor such foolish thoughts.” 

“You were very merciful to me.” 

“ No, that would be a baseless thought. It was fate, 
nothing else. There is no meaning in such cruel strokes of 
fate.” 

Then, after another pause, he spoke again. 

“ Where is her father now ? ” 

She lay at his feet, rigid and silent, listening to the voice, 
frozen by the sadness out of which the voice came. 

“ Edith, please answer me. Is he still at that place — 
in Warwickshire? Edith, where is Cyril Stewart now?” 

“ He is dead to me. He has been dead a long time. He 
died before the child was born.” 

“Yes, but he will rise from the dead.” 

“ Never, to me.” 

“You will marry him when I have set you free.” 

“ No.” 


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“You will marry him — why not? But you’ll be kind 
to my children. If you have other children by him, you’ll 
still be kind to mine ? ” 

“ I will have no husband but you — no children but your 
children.” 


XXXVIII 


It was the middle of the night, and they were again 
alone. The doctor and the servant had gone to their rooms 
upstairs, and both slept peacefully; but they would be with 
her immediately if she required assistance. Indeed, before 
they consented to leave her on guard, she had promised that 
she would at once rouse the doctor if she saw any change in 
the patient. 

Now, watching his face under the subdued light of a 
shaded lamp, she thought that she saw the change; and she 
believed the end was coming fast. 

He had dozed for perhaps an hour; then he stirred un- 
easily, stretched out a feeble, groping hand, and began to 
mutter : 

“Who is it? Who is there?” 

“Jack. It is I — your wife. Look at me.” 

She moved the lamp, and raised the shade. The light 
fell full upon his face and shoulders, and upon her from 
her head to her waist. He was propped so high in the bed 
that it was as if he stood upright; and it seemed to her 
that they two were standing face to face within the circle 
of vivid light which for months had haunted her thought. 
All round them, beyond the narrow circle, was darkness, 
immensity, infinity. 

“Yes, break the links.” He was muttering to himself, 
and not to her. “ Break all the links.” 

“ Jack, can you see me? It is I — your wife.” 

“ Yes, I see you — Break the links. I am tired.” 

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THE REST CURE 


“ Jack, my darling, listen to me. 
say.” 


Try to hear what I 


“Yes, I can hear.” 

She had brought her face close to his; she was gazing into 
his eyes. 

“ Jack, I want to tell you. I must tell you all the 
truth.” 

“ That’s what they told me, and I didn’t understand. 
Break all the links with life, and then death and life are 
one. . . . Yes, is that you, Edith? ... I have 

broken the last link. I am ready.” 

With each word his voice had gained tone and volume. 
She knew that he could see her; he could hear her; his mind 
was clear. 

“ Jack, I must tell you. You shall know the truth before 
you go.” 

“ I am going nowhere. There is nothing real — here or 
hereafter.” And the sadness of the voice seemed to flood 
forth in rolling waves, sweeping out into the darkness, roll- 
ing on beyond the limits of the earth, reaching to infinity. 

“ No, there is life hereafter — eternal life.” 

“It is all in ourselves. Dick was right. The things 
we think solidest are shadows — without substance. Noth- 
ing that I have trusted is real.” 

“Yes, I am real. My love is real. You’ll know it in a 
little while as certainly as now. You are going from me, 
but you are not ceasing to exist. Don’t fear that.” 

“ I don’t fear. I am longing for my rest. I’m tired — : 
I’m very tired.” 

“ Then listen. Don’t speak,” and she took his hand. 
“Only listen — and believe. You and I are hand in hand 
at the steps of the throne of God — and God be my judge 
if I lie to you. ... I love you — I swear that you are 
the only man I ever truly loved.” 

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THE REST CURE 


“ I used to think so — a dream within a dream,” and he 
moved his head, and moaned. 

“ Rest your head upon my breast.” She slid her arms be- 
hind his body, and held him. “Take warmth from me, 
take life from me — for I am all yours. Now listen, while 
I tell you how I betrayed my love: 

“We were all of us fond of him, and we all admired 
him. I saw his faults less than the others — but none of us 
knew that he was worthless and base. Then, when he 
came home from the war, we made a hero of him. He was 
with us that winter at Mentone, and I felt flattered and 
happy, yes, happy, when he said he had fallen in love with 
me. 

“ He told me I must wait for him, and I promised. He 
said it was a secret between us, and I might not hear from 
him, but I was to know that this was the aim of his life — 
to earn enough money, and then to marry me. I was dis- 
appointed and rather miserable about it. I mean, about not 
telling the others; but I promised to keep it secret, and to 
wait. 

“ And Jack, I waited for him patiently, and I always 
considered I was engaged to him. But then gradually I 
understood that he had never meant it, and that he was idle 
and selfish; and I was glad then that it had been a secret, 
so that father and mother wouldn’t guess how he had fooled 
me and thrown me over. 

“ When he heard that you and I were to be married, he 
said nothing. I thought he would write to me. It would 
have made no difference. Then, when he came to see us 
in London, he pretended to be sad and unhappy, and he re- 
proached me for forsaking him. Jack, do you feel my heart 
beating against yours? Take strength from me, take life 
from me.” 

He was breathing quite easily; his head, supported by her 

386 


THE REST CURE 


shoulder, was higher than before; he seemed to feel no dis- 
comfort while he rested passively in her arms. 

“ Then, when I went out to Cannes, he was there — by a 
chance — and I encouraged him to go about with us.” 

“ But that wretched woman — the woman I paid to look 
after you? ” 

“ At first she didn’t notice. And sometimes I went about 
with him alone; and he used to say how cruelly I had 
treated him, and that he and I ought to have been husband 
and wife, and that he would never marry, because he had 
lost me. 

“ Then Mrs. Hammond warned me about him. But I 
laughed at her, and said he was a cousin — like a brother ; 
and that you wouldn’t mind. But some people talked to 
her, and she was frightened, and said she would write to you. 
And I laughed at her, and persuaded her that it would be 
silly to upset you. Jack, I swear before God that I meant 
no harm. I let myself drift on, without one wicked 
thought. It was what you said. You were far away. 
You had become a shadow. I could not follow you, or 
keep with you in thought. Jack, are you listening? Do 
you hear all I say? ” 

“ Yes, I hear you.” 

“ This is the blank that you asked me to fill — and I re- 
fused. I am filling the blank.” 

“Yes; go on.” 

“What you said — the search-light of truth! It is on 
me now. You shall see through and through me.” 

“ Yes, go on.” 

“Then Jefferson — you remember? — my maid. She 
spoke to me about him. And I was angry and ashamed that 
a servant should dare to interfere; and I asked him what I 
had better do. He told me to dismiss her; and I did it. 
Jack, I knew that was wrong. I gave her money, enough 
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THE REST CURE 


money to make her hold her tongue, and I sent her away. 

“ Then Mrs. Hammond was ill, and he and I were left 
alone. And all day long I used to feel nervous and ex- 
cited. And I knew that I was letting myself fall into his 
power, and still I didn’t mean to be wicked. But I knew 
that it was dangerous, and I liked the danger. Jack, don’t 
— don’t.” 

Her arms were burst apart. The dying man struggled 
and groaned, raising a clenched fist to his throat, and with 
his other hand feebly pushed against her bosom. 

“ Jack, be merciful.” She had got her arms round him 
again; she was kissing his clammy forehead. “You said it 
yourself. To understand all is to forgive all. If I can 
make you believe, I shall make you forgive. 

“ There were some rich Americans who had a yacht, and 
they asked us for a week’s cruise. Mrs. Hammond agreed 
to go, before she fell ill; and we were to join the yacht at 
Genoa. And while she was ill, he persuaded me to send 
a telegram saying that I would go -without her: so we left 
her at Cannes, and he and I went alone. He arranged it 
so that we got to Genoa late at night, when he said it was 
too late to go on board the yacht, and we must go to an 
hotel. 

“ Then he took advantage of my weakness.” And again 
the dying man struggled and groaned. “No, not by force, 
or trickery. But he knew how it would end. He knew me 
better than I knew myself. Jack, all his life he had been 
making good women vile, and vile women viler. Oh, my 
husband, my husband, how I hate him! It was nothing to 
him. And now, this is what you are to believe. It was 
nothing to me. All that was real was the unbearable dis- 
gust and remorse when I looked back at it, and remembered 
what had happened. 

“ But he wouldn’t let me go. He made me stay with 

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THE REST CURE 


him at Genoa for a week. Then he went away, to Rome, 
and sent me back to Cannes. 

Jack, I went back and lied to Mrs. Hammond — tried 
to make her think that I had been to Corsica on the yacht. 
But perhaps she suspected. I was never sure. And for a 
long time I was like someone who has had concussion of the 
brain. I felt dazed and stupefied, deprived of thought. I 
could not think. 

“ Then all at once fear came and roused me. It seemed 
years ago instead of weeks; and suddenly, as I counted the 
weeks, I realized that my wickedness was to have most hor- 
rible consequences. I felt mad with terror, counting the 
time, still hoping and praying. And then I telegraphed to 
him to come to me. 

“ It was another two days before he came. And he said 
what had frightened me was not really conclusive evidence. 
It might be accounted for in other ways. Doctors had told 
him so. Then I asked him to take me to Paris, and find 
some doctor to help me, but he wouldn’t do that. He said 
it was too dangerous. And he said again that we could not 
be sure ; and we ought not to lose our heads ; and that I must 
get my trunks packed, and go straight back to you.” 

“ The cur, the dirty little cur.” 

“ He said of course I could stay with him, and wait for 
you to divorce me.” 

“Why didn’t you?” 

“ Because I hated him. I tell you I hated him as much 
as I hated myself. Can’t you believe it? O God, have 
pity on me, and make him believe it. 

“ I had never really given myself to him ; and yet this 
abominable thing had happened to me. I never cared for 
him in the way that I love you — with all the blood in my 
body, all the thought in my brain, seeking you, wanting you, 
craving for you. It was a sort of madness and blindness 

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THE REST CURE 


combined, weariness, languid powerlessness, so that I couldn’t 
resist him. Jack, can’t you believe?” 

“ Don’t tell me any more. Now let me rest.” 

“ Yes, you shall rest, my darling; but you must forgive me 
first. Try to think of my punishment. Then you’ll for- 
give me. 

“ Though he offered me the choice, he didn’t intend to be 
burdened with a divorced wife on his hands. He said he’d 
put the whole situation before me. On one side, there was 
a bold policy — to face all consequences. But was I strong 
enough to do that? It would be good-by to everything. 
No one would speak to me. He said, of course I should 
lose the children as well as you. It would break the hearts 
of father and mother. On the other side, there was the 
easy way of getting out of it. There was ample time, and he 
said it was lucky you weren’t in Ceylon. I could go back, 
and neither you nor anybody else would ever suspect; and 
he reminded me again and again that we couldn’t be sure. 
And it was true, I didn’t know ; but I felt certain there was 
no hope. But if I waited to be sure, it would be too late. 
Once back with you, I should be safe either way.” 

“Yes, you were safe.” 

“ He told me all I was to say and do — to begin prepar- 
ing people for the baby being born before the proper time. 
He told me to do heaps of things.” 

“ Did you do them all ? ” 

“ Yes, nearly all.” 

“ They were not needed. I had no suspicions. You 
were safe.” 

“ Then I was alone in the train, drawing nearer to you 
every hour. Jack, I was quite alone — paralyzed with hor- 
ror and despair. Be merciful; have pity on me. This was 
the punishment that has lasted till now. I thought I 
wouldn’t really come to you. I thought I would kill my- 
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THE REST CURE 


self. But how and where, so that my dead body wouldn’t 
be found? I thought that after death my body would be 
cut open, and then perhaps they’d discover the secret. I 
didn’t know if they could, if it would be possible; but I 
thought, of all ways, that would be the most terrible way 
of your learning my disgrace. Still I thought I would stop 
in Paris, and somehow kill myself. I felt that I ought to 
do it. But I was afraid. I went on, nearer and nearer 
to you. Jack, that journey home was sufficient punishment 
for any sin that has ever been committed. 

“ But the punishment was only beginning. Think of 
it, Jack — what I had to live through. I prayed that 
the child and I might both die, until I felt its life within 
me, and then God made me love the child, and I prayed 
that the child might live and that I might die. Think of 
it, Jack, my husband, understand it, and forgive me. You 
were happy and proud, and I acted out my part, and saved 
you from the pain. 

“ And think of those two years, with God’s hand poised 
above my head, waiting to strike me again. For I knew 
then — I knew what God meant to do with me. He would 
make me love the child more and more, and then He would 
take her away from me. 

“ And yet that was not enough. God sent me back to 
you, cleansed me of the sin, and gave me to you once again, 
but my punishment went on. Think of this year, think of 
these last months, when I have had no thought but for you. 
And I held all your love, and we were happy in our little 
time of love, and I thought: My punishment was not in 
vain. He will never know. He can never know — till he 
and God have met, and both will forgive me.” 

He remained passive in her arms, with his head against 
her neck. He was breathing fast, but without any indica- 
tion of painful effort. 


391 


THE REST CURE 


“ Jack, do you hear me? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“Am I forgiven? Do you forgive?” 

“Yes, yes.” The word was a whisper, repeated again 
and again as he drew the faint breaths. “Yes — yes — 
yes ; ” and the word sounded like the breath itself. 

Very slowly and gently she changed her position, until she 
could again see his eyes. 

The eyelids were drooping; but the eyes were still bright 
and clear, staring through the lamp-light at the shadows, 
seeing her, seeing his silken coverlet, the foot of the bed, a 
chair, the corner of the dressing-table. 

“ Edie, I am so tired. Give me rest. Let me rest.” 

She was holding him as a mother holds a sick child; and 
his breathing was like a child’s — very rapid, very faint. 

“Yes,” she whispered, “ rest, my darling — rest.” 

The black shadows changed to gray; silver arrows shot 
out at the sides of the curtained windows; and the night 
crept away before the dawn. Daylight turned the lamp- 
light pale, and she looked again at the white face and the still 
open eyes. 

He could see nothing now. Light of lamps, light of suns 
were the same to him; this silent room and all that it con- 
tained, the woman he had loved, the world he had loved, 
were gone — the vision was inwards now, finally, irre- 
vocably. 

Dr. Rycroft, when he came downstairs, told Lady Edith 
that the patient must have been unconscious for more than an 
hour. Dr. Rycroft urged her to be very brave; and, while 
he performed some offices for the patient, putting his head 
on the pillows, sponging his lips, and so on, he begged her 
to observe the peaceful expression of the face. The har- 
assed, apprehensive aspect of the last few days had disap- 
392 


THE REST CURE 


peared; the features were composed; the skin showed no 
contractions or wrinklings. This is all that one could have 
wished — a sinking to rest without the pangs of dissolution, 
so that the end is like a dream that passes into deep, un- 
troubled sleep. 


(l) 


* 

THE END 



A MASTERPIECE OF FICTION. 


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D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK. 


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D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK 


5 1 ft ' * 


451 






















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